The Devil You Know
by REB Jenn
Summary: ."We will all be hunted, we'll all be killed!" Sam & Dean, with Castiel in tow, try to reach Bobby's house in the aftermath of Lucifer's rising, but both demons and angels aren't making it easy. A sequel to Comfort to the Enemy.
1. In the dark of the sun

**Disclaimer:** If they were mine, there'd be more whumping and a lot more hugging. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made from it. The characters you know belong to Eric Kripke and the CW, the others are my invention. I am only borrowing them and no (real) harm is intended.

**Rated:** T, for language and some violence.

**Spoilers:** Generally for Season 4, and specifically for episode 4.22.

**Notes:** This is a continuation of Comfort to the Enemy. Apparently my kink for angel!whump was nowhere near satisfied. Also, it's still gen. I've never written so fast before, but this whole thing is about to be kripke'd out of the water once Season 5 starts, so I figured I better get cracking.

The chapter titles are taken from _In the Dark of the Sun_, written by Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne.

Onward once again.

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 1**

* * *

Gina King, Detective Second Class, gathered up the curly red mass of her hair and secured it at the nape of her neck with an elastic band. With a papery rustle, she tugged the hood of a biohazard suit snugly over the bright strands corkscrewing around her face, and then clipped her ID to the tab on the breast pocket. Leaving the camera she had been using only moments before on the hood of the nearest police cruiser, she hurried up the convent steps and inside St. Mary's.

The dusty stone corridors were crowded now; someone from the State Police had called in the feds. A young agent with more bluster than experience was barking orders just outside the double doors leading to the chapel. Gina strode confidently past him with the air of someone with every right to be there.

Once in the chapel she stepped to one side and surveyed the scene. Investigators from half a dozen agencies were crawling over the place like swarming insects in the blaze of spotlights and camera flashes, but she looked past them all, seeking proof of the rumors.

_It was true._ Flanked by a pair of female bodies, one blonde, one dark, was a perfectly circular hole carved in the stone floor. Gina closed her eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. Beneath the cloying stink of blood she smelled something else, something… unearthly. She shuddered.

One of the EMTs roped into assisting the M.E. bumped past her, bringing Gina back to the present. She studied the dead women on the floor. _There—the dark one._ She stepped lightly around the tendrils of blood sketched upon the stone and crouched by the girl's body. Her eyes were open and already cloudy and sunken, though when Gina touched the clothing over her fatal wound, the blood was still wet.

"What are you doing?"

The voice came from behind her, and Gina twisted to look up into the face of the blowhard fed. "Taking a blood sample," she replied innocently.

His eyes flicked from her face to the ID dangling from her bio-suit and back again. She was sure he was about to order her out of the chapel, but then someone called out, and he gave Gina a brusque nod and hurried off.

A little smile played over Gina's full pink lips. She drew off her glove and pressed one slim, caramel-colored hand into the sticky knife wound in Ruby's belly.

* * *

Sam's getting restless.

Dean started noticing it around the time they crossed the Mississippi—the jiggling knee, the drumming fingers, the sideways twist of Sam's head like he's trying to crack his neck, over and over until it's become a tic. He can't blame it on too much caffeine on an empty stomach, either; Sam's let every cup of coffee he's been handed go cold before pouring it out untouched.

"Sam."

His brother startles, all out of proportion to the quiet word. Dean sees his eyes flutter rapidly – _blink-blink_ – before focusing on him. "Yeah?"

"You gotta take a leak or something?"

"No."

He doesn't ask 'why?', so Dean has to push it. "You're awful twitchy for someone who doesn't have to pee," he says, turning his attention from the road long enough to stare pointedly at the fingers of Sam's right hand, tapping a silent rhythm on the Nova's door panel.

Sam's hand curls closed and stills. "I'm a little nervous, Dean," he says flatly, and turns away to stare out the side window.

Dean doesn't really want to do this, not here, not now. He flicks a glance at the rearview mirror. Castiel is watching him, expressionless. And then the angel cuts his gaze to the side, to Sam sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of the borrowed Nova. Dean follows his gaze just as Sam jerks his head sideways again and ever-so-slightly begins to tap his fist on the edge of the door.

_Shit._

"Nervous," Dean says, letting skepticism color his voice.

"You don't think I have anything to be nervous about?" Sam asks, still in that flat tone, still not looking at Dean.

And something inside Dean cracks a little more, shedding splinters of sheer hurt that stab deep in his gut. "After the other night you're still doing this, still hiding shit from me?" he asks, low.

"What am I hiding from you? I just told you I'm nervous. You want a more honest word? I'm scared. Okay? You happy with that?"

"No, it's not okay." God, he doesn't want to do this. "You're not 'nervous', Sam, you're withdrawing. From the demon blood."

Sam shakes his head, still staring at the countryside rolling past. "I am not. I burned out every last drop killing Lilith. Every. Last. Drop, Dean. I would've started feeling it before now if it was going to affect me." He does swing around then, and his expression is open and earnest as he faces his brother. "It was just psychological. Ruby said it wasn't actually poison, it was just a crutch. Something to boost my confidence while I got stronger on my own. I have a lot of things to answer for, I know it, but addiction isn't one of them."

"God almighty, you're still buying her bullshit?" Dean bellows. "How do you not get that every word out of her filthy mouth was a lie?"

Sam's face wipes to blankness again, and he turns back to the window. "Not every word. I was there the whole time, Dean, you weren't. Her savior was rising and she didn't have any reason left to lie. She was sincere."

Dean's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and he has to will away the urge to rip it clean off and knock Sam silly with it. He could kill Ruby all over again, really happily. Really torturously.

Something dark moves behind his ribs.

He glances at the rearview mirror, and Castiel's eyes meet his, deep and sorrowful.

Out of sight on the passenger side floor, Sam's right foot starts bouncing up and down.

* * *

In an Indiana hospital just north of Louisville and the Kentucky state line, Mrs. Robyn Gutmann smiled tremulously and held out shaking arms. "Let me see him!"

And the nurse with the dark, dark eyes silently passed her new flannel-wrapped son to the exhausted woman in the birthing bed.

* * *

Dean's usually pretty good at judging diners from the driver's seat, but even he admits he called it wrong on this one.

They're maybe an hour outside Hopewell, Iowa, on a rural stretch with only occasional buildings strung along the road. He figures they can fuel up, hit the toilets, and then he'll be good to pull an all-nighter into South Dakota and Bobby's.

He thinks they're going to need Bobby's panic room sooner rather than later.

Dusty grease slicks every flat surface in the place, and the air smells sour, like dirty dishes left soaking too long. Sam's face is set to 'colossally bitchy' as he slides across the cracked vinyl seat to the window. Even the plastic plants lining the sill look wilted, but the sign outside had promised 'Pies baked on premises' and who can resist that, Dean wants to know.

The waitress can barely stir herself to put down her phone and pick up her order pad. Dean dredges up a smile from somewhere when he orders, but all he gets in return is a hostile snort.

"You want anything, Cas?"

"Coffee, please," the angel says with that careful precision of his, and the waitress sighs and shifts her weight onto one hip to show what a major hassle it is when Dean adds, "And bring him a glass of milk with that."

He figures Sam won't even bother with the pretense of dinner, but he decides to be completely contrary and orders the biggest steak dinner with sides on the menu and then makes a show of cleaning the tabletop in front of him with a paper napkin.

There's no point trying to reason with him when he's like this. Dean leans his head back over the booth to stretch out his muscles, regretting it when he gets a look at the oily grey strings of cobweb dangling from the drop ceiling. His neck sticks to the vinyl when he sits up.

The food is delivered with surly tosses that slop gravy and limp green beans across the table. Castiel cocks his head as if a particularly mystifying skit is being performed and solemnly rescues his teetering coffee cup from the table rim. Sam growls something about ptomaine poisoning and shoves his plate away.

"Move. I want to get out."

"Where are you going?" Dean asks.

"The damn car, okay? Let me _out_."

The Nova's warded, and Dean can see it through the smeary plate glass, so he scoots out of the booth to let Sam past. Accidentally or not, his brother knocks the table hard as he exits, and Castiel plucks up the glass of milk in his other hand as it sloshes dangerously. Sam slams out the diner door and across the lot, shoving his hands through his hair as he goes.

"Here, give me that." Dean takes Castiel's coffee cup, and pours half of it into his cloudy water glass. He starts to cut the remaining coffee with milk, but he gives the glass a quick sniff and grimaces. "Ah, gross! Don't drink it. I'll get you some at the next decent place we pass, okay?"

He swears the angel looks disappointed. "All right, Dean."

Sam's stalking in a circle around the car, kicking at the ground with every other step. He left a heap of shredded napkins when he walked out, and Dean pushes the scraps into a puddle to soak up the spill. He pushes the fried chicken pieces around on his plate, too, his appetite gone. Castiel is watching him with quiet compassion, arms tucked close to his sides, leaning forward a little so he's not touching the seatback. Dean frowns.

"You okay, Cas? How's your… back?"

"Improving."

The angel looks untroubled, but Dean figures he's covering some pretty steady pain, if the damage to his wing is anything to go by. "You want to, you know, stretch it out or anything before we go?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I do not believe I could get it folded again afterward."

"Yeah, okay." Dean checks out the window again. Sam's still pacing by the car. He's got his hands locked behind his neck and his head tilted backward, staring up at the sky as he shuttles back and forth. Dean gives up on his dinner and slides his dessert plate over. Pie for dinner is perfectly reasonable, after all.

One bite changes his mind. How the_ hell_ can you ruin strawberry rhubarb like that? He wipes his tongue on a napkin and shudders, pushing that plate aside as well.

Without the excuse of food to distract him, Dean hunches forward. "Cas? What exactly did Sam do?"

The angel studies him, a hint of puzzlement in his expression. "Don't you remember? He drank the blood of the demon Ruby and at her instigation caused Lucifer to be released."

"No, I know that part. I mean, what did he do after…" Dean has trouble with the words. "…after he knocked me a couple of good ones and took off with Ruby?"

"Dean…"

"I found a devil's trap in Ruby's car, Cas." The angel looks away, something like distress pinching the corners of his eyes. "What did he need with a devil's trap, huh? He had a demonic blood bank sittin' on his shoulder already." Castiel still isn't meeting his eyes and Dean makes a frustrated noise. "Cas, c'mon—don't start lying to me again!"

"I am not lying to you, Dean." When Castiel finally returns his gaze, his eyes have gone soft with compassion once more. "But you really should ask your brother that question."

* * *

Robyn Gutmann screamed louder and harder than she had just an hour before during transitional labor. The last wisp of black smoke disappeared between her still-unnamed son's sweet pink lips. The newborn's eyes blinked open, hazy blue and uncomprehending for a heartbeat. And then they flipped to solid, shining black, and Mrs. Gutmann's infant cackled shrilly into his mother's face. She screamed until her voice cracked, and flung her baby across the maternity room.

The air billowed. A young man, long-haired, dressed in solid black except for the silver band logos on his t-shirt, stepped out of thin air and over the body of the nurse. Drawing a long golden blade from behind his back, he knelt beside the baby. Soft light gleamed from the blade, and the sound it made as it sliced the tiny throat was barely more than a whisper.

* * *

It happens almost too fast for Dean to process. One second he's on the road, leaving that bio-dump of a diner in his dust, and the next Castiel is twisting in the backseat, saying, "Dean. _Dean_.", gruff and urgent, and something hits the Nova.

He feels it land, feels the back end dip under a sudden addition of weight. He catches a glimpse of dark shadow from the corner of his eye as he swerves, fishtailing the rear of the car around.

Claws skitter on metal and Dean grabs Sam's elbow, yanking him into his side, away from the window. He slams on the brakes and they all three rock forward, he and Sam against the wheel, Castiel into the back of Dean's seat.

A solid black shape clatters from the roof, down the windshield. It slides across the hood, claws scoring thin lines in the paint until they catch, dig in. The thing flips over and Dean's staring through the glass at a nightmare creature, long and low, ropy muscles shifting beneath oily-looking black skin. A head that looks like an ugly-ass cross between a giant ant and a bull terrier wags side to side and then hones in on Dean. Huge eyes bore into him through the negligible barrier of the windshield.

"Holy fuck." Dean shifts into reverse and stomps the gas. The car roars backward and the black thing slips down the hood on all six of its legs, claws scrabbling for purchase. Sam's shouting, alternating "What is that? What is it?" and "Kill it, Dean! Kill it!" and bashing into his side, and Dean kinda needs his arm right now. The thing disappears over the grille and Dean brakes, shifts into drive, and mashes the gas pedal.

The Nova thuds heavily over what feels like a boulder, bottoming out with a harsh scrape as it clears it. Dean glances in the rearview mirror—there's a black lump in the road, and he considers reversing over it another few times except he's afraid the car'll get hung up. The thing felt damn solid the first time he nailed it.

Castiel grabs Dean's shoulder. "That won't kill it!" he yells. "You have to split the head!"

"Oh, great." Dean shoves the door open, Castiel scrambling after him, and heads toward the black thing, drawing Ruby's knife as he runs. It's already uncurling from its protective ball, sinewy legs bracing on the road, wedge-shaped head rising from its, what? Chest? Thorax? and swaying to spit Dean with its eerie dark gaze.

Split the head, Cas said. Dean grips the hilt and slams the knife down into the top of the skull. He half-expects it to bounce off, but the blade slides in as easily as if it's a sawdust-filled practice dummy. He twists, and the thing chuffs out a grunt of sulfurous breath and the head cleaves neatly down the center.

Castiel grabs his arm and yanks Dean back. The thing's legs tremble and unlock and the body slumps into a heap, sending out a mildewy-looking puff of black powder as it collapses.

"Don't get that on your skin," Castiel warns.

"Okay, I'll bite—what the hell is that thing?" Without taking his eyes off it – it's crumbling slowly into loose dark dust as he watches – Dean crouches and swipes the knife through the long grass at the edge of the road.

"Ifrin." The carcass has lost all definition now, and the powdery residue begins to drift away across the road. Sam has gotten out of the car and joined them, and Castiel shifts to one side, just enough to let him see without getting too close. "They're trackers—one of Hell's creatures. I was told we had gotten them all. The demons must have hidden a queen."

"Demonic trackers." Dean stares at the dwindling pile of black dust and then peers around the countryside, all open fields and scattered trees to the horizon. "That's just peachy. And it was looking at _me_. Why was it looking at me?"

"You're the one being tracked," Castiel says in an infuriatingly reasonable tone.

"Tracking me _how_?"

"Normally by blood scent." Castiel narrows his eyes, his head tilting slightly. "Were you injured at the convent?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not a scratch." He winces as a thought occurs to him, and turns slowly to Sam, who's looking on with an abstracted frown and scratching idly at the side of his neck. He jerks his head at his brother. "Blood scents—you don't think it followed…?"

"It focused on _you_, Dean," Castiel says, and Sam's head snaps up and his frown morphs into a hot glare at his brother. "You're their target."

"Yeah, well…" He breaks off and rubs a hand down his face. "You keep saying 'they'."

"Ifrin usually run in packs."

"Shit." Ignoring Sam's still-furious glare, he spins his brother around. "Get back in the car. We'll make a run for it before more show up."

He pushes the old Nova ruthlessly, and manages to get it going a good 25 miles an hour over the speed limit. Sam still looks pissed off as he twists to watch out the back window, but at least his twitching has subsided for the moment.

"I need a knife or a crowbar or something," he says tersely.

"Hopewell's not much further; we'll weapon-up there if we can." Dean presses harder on the accelerator.

They almost make it. They speed past a few farm lanes and houses and then a service station at an intersection as they approach civilization. Ahead in the distance Dean can see crowded power lines, clustered trees with roofs poking up between the bare branches. Rising even higher is the white spire of a church steeple, pointing to hallowed ground. He can fend off demonic creatures from hallowed ground, right?

They almost make it.

In the passenger seat, Sam stiffens. He gasps "Dean!" just as Castiel echoes "_Dean_." from the backseat and he looks up from the road to catch a flash of black in the mirror.

They're riding the slipstream behind the car, and gaining fast. The Nova rocks as one ifrin leaps onto the trunk; the wheel nearly jerks from Dean's grasp. He hears the screech of claws on metal as he swerves across the center line and back again, but the move doesn't prevent a second heavier 'thud'.

Castiel leans forward and grips his shoulder. "Pull over before they crash us," he says, low, in Dean's ear.

It kills him to concede, but the angel's right. Another 'thud' rocks the Nova, this one aimed at the driver's door. There's a flat grassy area coming up on the right; Dean steers into it, cranking the wheel to slew the car sharply and maybe throw the creatures off it.

"I'll draw 'em off!" he yells, and flings open the door.

"Dean, no!" Sam's out his side in a rush, but Dean charges right past him, still yelling. A black shape flashes by, and he watches in horror as the tracker launches itself at Dean. All six clawed feet hit his back and throw him forward. The head darts down and heavy jaws close on Dean's shoulder.

He throws out his hands first and somersaults, landing heavily on his back with the ifrin caught between him and the ground. Sam feels the impact shudder beneath his boot soles. "Dean, knife!" he yells.

Dean squirms, and then somehow the knife is arcing through the air towards Sam. He catches it on the run, and two long-legged strides have him at Dean's side. He swings, full-arm, without any hesitation.

Dean's already rolling. The demon creature is on top again, in exactly the right place to catch Sam's downstroke. The blade makes a little popping noise as it pierces the skull, and hot sulphur breath belches down Dean's shirt.

Sam grabs the front of that shirt and the ifrin's teeth and claws tear away as he hauls Dean upright. They don't have time to stand and watch the thing disintegrate—already two more are streaking toward them, and another two toward Castiel. Dean sees the angel do that step-half-turn like he's about to shoulder through a swinging door, but instead of vanishing in a quiet rustle, he staggers, off-balance, and pitches onto the ground. The ifrin are on him in a blink.

The other two are rushing Sam.

Their huge dark eyes are fixed on his brother now instead of him, and Dean jumps to get between them. The ifrin barrel past, as if they no longer see Dean at all. Then they spring, one from the left, one from the right, directly at Sam.

Sam lashes out with the knife, catching the closer one across the throat. Momentum carries it into his chest anyway, needle claws hooking his jacket like burrs, the bulk of it slamming him down onto his back. Dean body-checks the second one as Sam falls, managing to knock it off-course enough that it doesn't hit his brother.

The cut throat isn't slowing the first ifrin in the slightest. It jams Sam flat with strong legs, one depthless round eye taking up his entire horrified field of vision as the thing stares intently at him. Then its head dips and its jaws clamp onto the ball of his shoulder and lock tight.

Sam snaps his other arm up and plunges the knife into the back of the sleek black skull. The blow's not quite centered, and he has to jerk the blade side to side before he feels that splitting sensation that means he's been successful. The ifrin starts to slump.

"Knife!" he hears Dean holler, and so he tosses it straight up and then rolls across the ground, trying to pry off the dying creature.

The second tracker is completely ignoring Dean as he continues to slam it aside, so intent is it on reaching his brother. Dean bounces up to pluck the knife from the air, and the slick muscular body worms past him and zeroes in on Sam, who's scrambling away from the carcass through the long dry grass. A clean burst of light from the side makes Sam flinch, and when his vision clears, Dean's wrenching the knife out of the second tracker's head and jumping back.

"You okay? You okay?" Dean shouts. "Sam, answer me!"

"Dean, yeah, I'm…" He's shaking almost too hard to stand up, tries and stumbles back down, and then finally manages to get to his knees. "…okay, yeah, I'm okay…"

"Go back to the car! Get in the car, dammit!"

Dean sprints across the grass—Sam's clear now but Castiel isn't, one ifrin eroding away to dust where he angel-zapped it but the other still snapping viciously at him. It springs up at him as the angel scrabbles backward on his ass, gets knocked down by one scything arm, and then springs again from a slightly different angle as it seeks an in.

It's not trying to pin and hold Castiel like the others seemed to be doing with Sam, with Dean; this one's trying to rip and tear, darting its pointed head like a snake, sharp teeth bared and gnashing. Dean's almost close enough to stab it when it strikes yet again, lightning fast, aiming for the angel's throat.

Castiel somehow catches it, one palm flattening on the sloping forehead. He bears upward against the ifrin as it strains toward him, snapping rabidly. Light flares, another of those bright clean bursts, rays leaking through outspread fingers. The tracker drives forward for another second until the head cracks apart and it goes limp. Castiel heaves its carcass up and off him, and rolls away. He ends on his hands and knees and sways there for a second before pushing to his feet. Dean reaches to help him and gets an eyeful of torn clothing— shirt collar and sideseam and – _holy shit_ – all down the back.

"Cas?"

He stumbles as he straightens, right shoulder hanging a little lower than the left. "They knew I was angel, that is why they came after me," he says hoarsely. "But why they suddenly targeted Sam, I do not know." His forehead crinkles in a slight frowns as his gaze sweeps the ground where the ifrins' carcasses are crumbling away into the grass.

"Okay, but that's not what I meant. Are you all right? Your shirts…"

Castiel looks a little bewildered, turning his gaze to the tears in the t-shirt and button-down Sam had bought for him. The scratches beneath are seeping blood, though nothing like the quantities after the archangel got through with him. "I think they could sense I cannot fly."

His answers don't exactly line up with what Dean's asking. "Oh, man, did you hit your head? Get in the car, Cas."

The angel's expression suddenly sharpens. "Yes, we must leave this place quickly. My kin may have felt when I killed the ifrin as I did. I'm sorry—I acted on instinct."

"Don't worry about it; let's just get out of here." Dean herds him to the car, where Sam's waiting, standing on tiptoe on the running board to look up and down the roadway. "See any more?"

"No, but do we really think that's all there are?"

Dean pulls back onto the road. The symbols Castiel painted on the car roof may block them from angel sight, but the demonic trackers don't seem deterred in the slightest. "If we keep going to Bobby's, we'll just lead the ifrin there, won't we?"

"Yes." Castiel is perched tensely on the edge of the backseat, swaying a little with the car's motion.

"Is there any way to get 'em off our backs?"

"Sometimes immersion in holy water can break the trail. It depends on how deeply they have acquired your scent."

"We don't even know how they got it in the first place, let alone how deep." Dean checks the rearview mirror for black shapes hurtling in their wake, and when he turns back, he can feel Sam fuming next to him. "What?"

"It's not always my fault, Dean."

"I didn't say it was!"

"You're _implying_ it. This has nothing to do with my demon blood."

"Hey, you gotta admit it made sense—demon trackers sensing demon blood."

"But they came after _you_ first."

"I know, which is why it would be helpful if we can figure out why instead of bitching."

"I'm not bitching, I'm just tired of taking the blame!" The words practically explode out of Sam.

He's red-faced, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief. He slams one fist on the door panel and for a second his eyes look dark, too dark. Dean's stomach clenches.

"Not blaming you, Sam, I'm not. I said my first thought was that your blood might have attracted them—you show me a hunter anywhere who wouldn't think that. But Cas says they're after me, so obviously it's not your fault. Okay? Can we just concentrate on how to get rid of them?"

Sam's still stewing, rubbing a fist hard on his thigh as he stares out the side window. "Whatever, Dean."

"Sam, listen…"

"No, drop it, okay? Leave me alone. Look, there's a hardware store—pull over so I can find something to defend myself with."

He shoves open the door before Dean's fully stopped, and slams it behind him so hard the Nova rocks. Dean bends forward and rests his forehead on the wheel. "Fuck."

"Dean…"

"He's getting worse, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Fuck," he sighs again. "We gotta get him to Bobby's, Cas. But if we lead another pack of those things there, we're screwed." He bumps his head lightly up and down on the steering wheel. "Screwed," he groans.

"I will do what I can to help."

"Okay." Dean sucks in a long, slow breath and sits up. "What's the best thing – besides Ruby's magic demon-killing knife – for taking out ifrin?"

"Iron. Pure and sharp enough to pierce their skulls."

"Fine. You wait here—I'll go see what I can find."

* * *

Dean checks them into a motel on the far side of Hopewell. The row of attached rooms is built to look like a string of log cabins, and the office at the end is flanked by a sagging stockade fence. It's a lousy place to stage their own last stand, but the cracked, weedy parking lot is deserted. No other guests is a plus as far as Dean's concerned, if he wants to keep collateral damage to a minimum.

Inside it's grubby, and the cheap nylon bedspread feels sticky when Dean sets down his accumulation of plastic bags on the bed closest to the door. He starts pouring rocksalt across the threshold the second Sam swings the door shut.

"Go fill the tub," he tells Sam as he continues the line of salt along the windowsill. "Those things turned on you, so if holy water breaks the trail, we gotta get you protected. Go, Sam."

His brother stands in the center of the room, hand clenching on his newly-purchased crowbar, while Dean finishes with the salt. He's working his jaw back and forth and tension is pouring off him in waves. Dean dumps out the bag from the hardware store, picks out a rasp, and pretends not to notice his brother is spoiling for a fight.

"Lemme sharpen that while you go dunk yourself," he says quietly, holding out his hand.

Sam wavers for a second, fuming, before he slaps the crowbar into Dean's palm. "Fine," he snaps, and shoves through the bathroom door.

Dean drops onto the end of the bed. He doesn't look at Castiel, who's moved into the corner for some reason, observing silently. He just braces the crowbar on his lap and starts drawing the rasp over the pointed tips.

Sam slams back into the main room. "The bathroom's _gross_, and I need, uh…" his belligerent tone falters. "I need a rosary," he finishes in a mumble.

Dean's hand stills. "You don't have one?" he asks with quiet disbelief.

Sam's hair-trigger temper flares right back up again. "No, Dean, I don't have a rosary! I quit carrying one when I… when I…" Just as quickly, his anger drains away, and he sags in the doorway, turning his face aside behind the edge of the door.

"Okay." Dean rises, digging in his jeans pocket. He nods toward the bathroom, where water is gushing into the rust-stained bathtub. "You want me to do it?"

Sam shakes his head, swipes the beaded string from Dean's fingers. "I can," he mutters. He pushes away from his brother and shuts the door firmly.

Dean closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose hard between his fingers. "He's crashing faster this time."

"If what he said earlier is true, that he burned out all the blood killing Lilith, then I would expect this."

"What are we gonna do, Cas?"

"We do what you've planned—try and break the scent trail here and then continue to your friend's house and lock Sam into safety until he no longer craves demon blood."

"Like that worked so well last time," Dean mutters, reaching for the tools again.

Castiel drifts over to the bed, head canted slightly away. "I regret I felt following orders was the correct thing to do," he says, low.

Dean draws the rasp over the crowbar again, and then freezes as the words register. He looks up at Castiel, head lowered, gaze cast downward. "That was you," he says flatly.

"Yes."

"We should've known Ruby wasn't strong enough to touch all those wards and let Sam out." He tosses the tools aside onto the bed. Anger, and something more painful, is flaring in his chest, and he doesn't want anything sharp and heavy in his hands. "Angels blaming demons for their dirty work—yeah, saw that one before, too."

"I am sorry, Dean."

"I dunno if that's going to cut it, Cas. I was trying to save my brother, and you wanted to end the world."

Castiel does lift his head then, and there's a touch of desperation in his eyes that Dean wants to ignore. "I didn't, not really. But the things that were shown to me…" He breaks off. "Did you find it easy to defy your father's wishes?"

"No, but this was way bigger! This was using my little brother to bring on the freakin' Apocalypse!"

"Was it bigger than not following your father's directive to kill Sam once he chose this path?"

Dean flinches as if he's been struck. "Shit, Cas. That's cold."

"That's a soldier's perspective," the angel says. "I thought paradise was as worthy a cause as you found the salvation of your brother to be." He looks away again. "In any case, if I had refused, I would have been recalled, permanently, and another would have released Sam", he says in a low voice.

"Recalled?" The slow burn in Dean's chest is eclipsed by a wave of uneasiness.

He tries to catch Castiel's eye, but just then the bathroom door crashes open and Sam bursts through, damp and glowering. "Quit talking about me, I'm not deaf, you know." He shoots Dean a furious glare. "It's your turn." He flings himself down on the empty bed and reaches for the TV remote on the nightstand. "Oh, and the towels suck," he adds with malicious triumph.

Dean glances at Castiel, and the angel inclines his head in a slight nod. He moves to the window, taking up a stance where he can watch outside between a crack in the drapes.

* * *

The bathroom _is_ gross. Dean tries not to look too closely as he flips the drain closed and cranks open the mineral-encrusted taps. He hopes those really are rust stains the water's slowly creeping over as the tub fills.

He kneels at the side, whispers Latin, touches the crucifix to the water. The tub's full enough to cover him if he slides way down, so he hangs the rosary on the faucet and strips off his clothes.

Sam used up all the hot water.

_I'll get that kid,_ Dean thinks as he climbs over the side, toes curling. _Sonuvabitch, definitely get him_, he vows as he sinks, cringing, into the freezing water.

The towels do suck—they're thin and boardy and don't do more than scrape the water around on his skin as he tries to dry off. He ends up using his t-shirt, and after he yanks on his jeans, he goes out to get a clean one from the shopping bags.

Sam's still channel surfing, one foot tapping hard enough that the bed's vibrating without quarters. There's a sigil on the door and Castiel is leaning on the wall with his gaze trained on the gap in the drapes, blood dripping slowly down his right arm.

"Shit, Cas!" Dean crosses the room with quick strides, snatching at his shoulder to swing him around. It looks like he re-opened one of the slashes inflicted by the ifrin to get the blood, and then just pressed the sleeve of his t-shirt into the wound. "What'd you do that for?"

"It will stop bleeding. You said Sam needed protecting."

"So now you're back to helping me protect him? This a permanent decision, or just today's?" It may not be entirely fair, but watching Sam twitch and snarl when he could've been clean by now goads Dean into lashing out.

Castiel's gaze won't settle on his—it skates over Dean, to the floor, back out the window. "I will do whatever is in my power to protect you both."

"I don't need you guys to _protect_ me!" The TV remote smashes against the far wall, and Sam's suddenly on his feet, shaking and sweating and working his hands convulsively. "_And stop talking about me like I'm not here!_"

Dean spreads his hands wide in a reassuring gesture. "Sam, relax."

Sam swings, slapping Dean's nearer hand aside. "Don't tell me to relax! Is that all you're going to do, just give me orders and talk behind my back? Not even ask me what I think?"

"Is there any point?"

"What?" The blunt question rocks him back.

"Will I get any kind of straight answers from you, Sam?" Dean asks wearily. His stomach's starting to ache and he damn well doesn't want to do this, but… it's been nagging at him ever since he found that devil's trap in Ruby's car, to find out how far across the line his brother might be.

Sam's expression sets into hard lines. "You don't trust me about anything anymore, is that it?"

"Why was there a devil's trap in Ruby's car, Sam?"

He recovers quickly, that's for damn sure. A brief flash of panic washes across Sam's face and then is gone, replaced by disdain. "How should I know? It was her car."

"Bullshit. You were riding with her, you knew what was going on. Why the devil's trap?"

He turns away under the pretense of picking up the shattered bits of remote. "I was getting really good at dragging demons out of people. Sometimes we had to move a possessed person someplace we wouldn't be disturbed."

"Were you getting really good at it because you were drinking from them first?"

Sam flings the pieces of the remote onto the dresser with enough force that they skitter across the top and clatter down into the space between the back and the wall. "I said I was sorry! Why isn't 'sorry' ever enough for you?" he yells.

The words sound angry, but his eyes are shadowed with fear. Deliberately, Dean turns aside and tears open a packet of gauze. He widens the blood-rimmed rip in Castiel's sleeve and slaps the gauze over the deep cut while Sam watches, quivering, thumping one fist against his thigh. "Cas, will you give us a minute?"

The angel wraps his left hand over the makeshift bandage and inclines his head. "Of course, Dean. I'll wait outside."

The doorlatch clicks quietly behind him. Dean gathers up all the tools, and slides Ruby's knife from his belt. He piles them all on the floor under the window and then picks up one of the pair of dining chairs from beside the burn-scarred table. Placing it between the door and Sam, he sits down and crosses his arms. It's not much of a barricade, but it'll slow Sam down a bit if he decides to make a break for the door or a weapon.

"'Sorry' is enough for me when I know the truth about what you're sorry for, Sam," he says quietly. "Sit down."

"You can't tell me…!"

"Sit _down_, Sam." Dean knuckles the side of his churning stomach as Sam drops onto the end of the bed with a resentful huff. "You're my brother. I'm not going to give up on you. But you have to tell me everything."

Sam glares at him. "What difference is that going to make? Your mind's made up—you think I'm a vampire."

"I do not. I told you, I shouldn't have said what I did, that you were a monster. It's not true and I don't believe that. I wanted you to know that, before the angels made me go and do my destiny crap."

Sam's shaking his head, jaw clenched. "That's not what you _said_."

"It is so! Didn't you listen to my message?"

"Yeah, and you called me a _vampire!_ You said I was a freak that should be hunted down!" Sam surges to his feet, the words ripping out in a rough scream. Dean leaps up so fast the chair goes over backwards. A horrible suspicion flashes into his mind, tightening his chest until he can't breathe. He lunges for Sam's pocket, knocks his hands aside when Sam tries to fend him off, comes up with his brother's phone.

The message is still there. Sam glares at him, red-faced and breathing hard, until Dean starts to play the voicemail again. Slowly the high color drains away until Sam's face is bleached white. He stumbles back a step, catching himself on the table as Dean's final "Sam, I'm sorry" fades away.

"That's not what it said. That night—that's not what…" He shudders, his face going sickly grey. "You didn't say that—you said I was a freak, a vampire, you said you were coming for me." Sam stares at Dean, and all the abject misery and horror of the past week come slamming back into him like a freight train. He staggers and Dean grabs his arms and pushes him down to the bed. "Ruby!" Sam gasps. "Ruby gimmicked it!"

Dean crouches before him, forcibly keeping his brother from leaping up. "Either Ruby or Zachariah. When the angels were holding me, waiting for you to open the door, he said something, something about you needing a nudge. He might've—hell, he might've been working _with_ Ruby."

"Oh god, oh god." Sam's trying to rock back and forth but Dean keeps his arms in a hard grip and won't let him loose. He's never seen his brother look so lost. "I killed her. You said – I _thought_ you said – Ruby said we'd save the world… so I killed her."

"Who, Sam?"

His back heaves. "She was a nurse, she said her name was Cindy. The one Ruby and I went after when Lilith's follower possessed her. I didn't even try to save her, Dean! Oh, god…" He wrenches sideways, trying to throw off Dean's hands.

Dean holds him fast, even as the last core of something deep inside shatters silently. "Tell me, Sammy. Get it all out so I can fix it."

"You can't fix this!" Sam cries. There are tears in his eyes and he stops fighting, just sits there wrecked and allowing the words to pour out like poison. "I made the demon tell us where Lilith would be. Cindy begged, but we took her with us. And when we got to Maryland, Ruby dragged her out of the trunk by her hair and I held her down while she cut her throat. I drank her blood until I couldn't suck another drop out and then Ruby rolled her into a ditch and _we left her there!_"

Sam crashes forward, forehead to Dean's shoulder. He's shaking so hard Dean has to shift on his heels to keep his balance and hang on to him. "Okay. Okay. This is so not good, Sam, but you know that. We can make it right. It's okay, Sammy."

"You can't fix this," Sam whispers after a long time.

"I can try."

He eases Sam back onto the bed and goes into the bathroom. The towels really do suck, and they don't look all that clean, either, so he wets the already-damp t-shirt he'd changed out of and takes it out to Sam. "Wipe your face. And listen to me. We're not going to let them win—Ruby, Zachariah, any of them. They're not going to use you anymore. So you have to kick the demon blood, Sam. I know it's hard, I know it's gonna hurt, but you have to stop lying to yourself and do it."

Dean drops beside him, shoving the sick feeling in his center down, down behind the dark places left by the rack. "We'll go to Bobby's where you can get through it safely. I'll stay with you while you get clean and then we'll figure out the rest."

"Ruby… Ruby did say I didn't really need the blood."

"Do you _feel_ like you don't really need the blood?" Dean asks, with a weary stare at Sam's knee, which has just started bouncing up and down again. "Sam, you're hooked on it. Maybe it didn't boost your powers, but you just got done telling me you _killed_ a woman to get it. I think maybe you're gonna have to trust me on this—I watched you withdrawing from it before, and even Cas seems to think demon blood is addictive."

Sam flinches and ducks, scrubbing at his eyes. "You trust him? I heard you through the door—he's the one who let me out of Bobby's panic room so I could go after Lilith."

"I don't know who I trust anymore!" Dean throws up his hands. "I'm pretty sure Cas was going to help us until the other angels – Zachariah, probably – found out. They hauled him back and changed his mind for him, did something to get him in line again. But he didn't stay changed. He… shit, Sam, he defied Heaven's orders to help us, and got his ass kicked all over again for it." He pushes slowly to his feet. "I don't think he was lying when he said they didn't tell him much. Finding out his boss may have been dealing with Ruby might've pushed Cas back to our side sooner."

Dean pulls open the door. "At least, I hope it would have. He needs to tell me just what he knew when. Cas?" Dean raises his voice, a frown starting to crease his forehead. "Cas! Where are you?"

He goes out onto the narrow cement stoop, turning slowly in an arc to take in the empty expanse of parking lot. Behind him, Sam rises painfully and scuffs over to peer over his shoulder. "He fly off somewhere?"

"He can't fly, his wing's still too busted up. Cas!"

Dean steps down off the curb to peer in the car, but it's empty, too. There's no one walking along the roadside in either direction; at the moment there aren't even any cars receding into the distance.

"Where the hell did he go?" Dean pivots, scanning the entire area from the tumbledown rooms at his back to the overgrown field across from the motel.

At the end of the covered walkway, a swirl of brown grass and leaves has blown up against the pillar supporting the narrow strip of roof, and something bright white is half-hidden by the debris. Dean crouches down and pulls it out and it's a piece of blood-smeared gauze.

And that's when he knows for certain Castiel is gone.

* * *


	2. Saw you sail across the river

See part 1 for disclaimer and notes.

Thank you to everyone who is reading, and an extra shout-out to my international readers! I appreciate it more than you know :)

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 2**

* * *

Castiel exits the motel room, twisting sideways so his trailing wing doesn't get caught in the door. The ifrin had not only known he was an angel, they had sensed he was an _injured_ angel, and went straight for his crippled right side as soon as he had stumbled. Not being able to step up into the air takes some getting used to.

He wanders over to Dean's borrowed car and reaches over the roof, skating his fingers lightly across the ward. Claw marks crisscross the paint, but they haven't broken the symbol he'd sketched there. Dean and Sam will still be shielded from angels' view, and as long as he keeps still and silent and doesn't do anything _stupid_ like purging Hell creatures with Grace, he should be hidden also.

Castiel drifts back from the car. Sam is yelling, and Dean is pouring fear and dismay through the door, so he moves away, to the end of the cement walkway. Dean's angry with him, and isn't going to want his interference.

He leans carefully against a support pillar and gazes across the fields. He can see Hopewell in the distance, a dark smudge of clustered trees and buildings, and he's not sure they're far enough away from where the trackers caught them.

They should not stay here. Once Sam and Dean have finished with the holy water and their discussion, they should leave this town behind. Castiel twists the ends of the bandage tighter around his bleeding arm and leans more heavily on the pillar.

He's going to need Dean's help getting the wing folded back up again.

There are no wingbeats to alert him, only a great wind that suddenly cyclones violently around him. Dry grass and dust blast outward, leaving a wide target of swept-clean ground with Castiel at the bull's-eye.

An angel hurtles down, wings pinned snug to his sides, one foot extended, and lands nearly on top of him.

Castiel flings himself back, mouth opening to shout a warning, but the other angel's hand shoots out and snaps Castiel in the center of his chest, right at the top of his breastbone.

"_Silence_."

The shout withers on his tongue. He is able to spin aside, getting the pillar between him and the other, and then he lunges for the door. The steely hand strikes out again, lightning fast, and seizes his arm, wringing tight around the bandaged bit.

"Come." There's a rumble of authority beneath the simple command, that doesn't fit the wizened, kindly appearance of the angel's elderly vessel. "Or I am authorized to employ violence."

His chest fills with pins and needles when he tries to resist the order. The grip on his arm tightens even more, and with a violent jerk, Castiel is wrenched into the sky in a dizzying rush of wind.

* * *

"Where is he? Goddamn _angel_." Dean's pacing between the car and the stoop, gravel spitting from beneath his boots with every step. "_Cas!_"

"Dean." Sam snatches at his arm the next time he tacks past the walkway. "We have _demonic trackers_ tailing us; yelling might bring them down on us."

Dean freezes in his tracks. "What're you saying? Demons got him?"

"I don't know! Maybe. He said those ifrin knew he was an angel; you said he couldn't fly away. You don't think demons wouldn't love getting their hands on an _angel_?"

"Holy fuck." Dean shoves shaking hands through his hair. His stomach folds over in a painful cramp. "Where would they have taken him?"

"Could be anywhere, but if I had to guess? Not too far, because they'd probably be afraid he'd break free while they're moving him."

"Okay. Okay." Dean scrubs his hands down his face. _Think, dammit._ "Okay, the demons were tracking me with those ifrin. They don't want me killing Lucifer, so they probably won't quit. They found Cas, but they'll be back for me." He draws a deep breath and nods. "Got it. Devil's traps—we need to set up devil's traps so we can catch one."

"Catch a demon? For what?" Sam's eyes widen.

"We catch a demon, I can make it talk," Dean says flatly.

The cold resolve in his brother's voice rocks Sam back. "We need paint or something, then," is all he says.

"I think I saw a Sharpie in the glove compartment."

They ready the room as best they can—Dean draws traps while Sam blesses water to fill every drinking glass in the cupboard, placing them strategically around the room. The salt lines are still mostly intact, but Dean reinforces them anyway, before settling on the bed with the weapons in arm's reach.

On the other bed Sam makes an impatient noise and snaps the laptop closed. "Signal keeps crapping out on me."

"Call Bobby. See what signs he's picking up."

In the distance, thunder rumbles. Dean rolls to his feet and twitches the drapes apart. "Tell him to check the latest weather charts for Iowa."

Green-tinged clouds boil along the eastern horizon. Dean watches the flicker of lightning along their underbellies while behind him Sam murmurs to Bobby, opens the laptop again, shakes it in frustration, and pushes it aside. He sounds focused as he talks, and Dean sneaks a glance at his brother. He's twirling the Sharpie in his fingers, but that's just normal Sam-concentrating habit. The withdrawal jumpiness seems to have been banked down under adrenaline for the moment.

"National Weather Service just posted tornado warnings for the Iowa border," Sam relays, and Dean nods.

"Ask him if lightning strikes are concentrated in any one place."

"He's not seeing any defined pattern yet," Sam says after a pause. Thunder rumbles, louder this time, and Sam winces and pulls the phone away from his ear. After a second he replaces it gingerly. "Bobby? You still there?"

A gust of wind whirls past outside, flattening the weeds and kicking up miniature dust-devils. The darkening sky lights up in a brilliant flash, revealing thunderheads piling ever higher.

"You seein' strike clusters yet, Bobby?" Dean calls.

"You hear that?" Sam murmurs into the phone, and then, "He says 'One damn minute, ya idjit'." Sam pulls the phone from his ear again and taps it against his palm. "What was that, Bobby? Tornado touched down at… Burlington, I think he said. Bobby? Bobby! My signal's dying."

"We crossed the Mississippi at Burlington," Dean mutters. He flings the drapes open and ducks instinctively as a long bolt of lightning stretches jagged fingers silently across the sky. Another gust of wind accompanies the thunderclap, setting the Vacancy sign out by the office to seesawing crazily.

"Let me try your phone," Sam says as Dean watches the clouds roll closer. He touches the knife hilt in his belt and shakes his head.

"Don't bother, Sam."

"Where are you going?" Sam cries in alarm as Dean throws open the motel door and steps out into the approaching storm. "Dean, are you crazy?"

"Stay there, Sam." He strides out into the middle of the parking lot and spreads his arms, head tilted to the roiling sky. "You want my scent? Here it is! Come get me," he yells into the wind.

Evening is closing in, faster than usual with the heavy clouds spread across the sky. As Dean waits, the motel's outside lights blink on. A last few flashes of lightning spark on the horizon and the thunder fades to distant growls. Finally even the wind dies, leaving an eerie silence that not even the birds or spring peepers dare to break.

"C'mon already," Dean mutters, squinting into the shadows. "Come after me so I can take him back from you."

"Dean." Sam's hanging out the door, looking more worried by the second. "I know you want to lure a demon in, but you're being reckless."

Dean levels a finger at him. "Stay there, Sam."

"At least come back behind the salt."

"No, I…"

It streaks out of the dark like someone fired off a rocket, and the next thing Dean knows, he's flat on his back trying to draw breath into lungs compressed by 150 pounds of solid muscle. The ifrin's huge round eyes glitter in the dying light and it trods up his chest to clamp heavy jaws around the joint of his shoulder.

Dean twists his free arm, fingertips brushing the knife at his side. He arches up against the tracker's weight, getting just enough clearance to slip the blade free as a second ifrin slams into his side. He tries to call to Sam, but what little breath he has left leaves him in a choked wheeze. Somehow he manages to toss the knife in a wobbling arc toward the motel, just before the second set of jaws closes on his other shoulder.

Then Sam's swooping across the parking lot, bending to scoop up the knife one-handed as he races past. He circles to come up on the trackers from behind, hand gripping the hilt tightly as he raises it high.

Three more trackers melt out of the darkness before he can strike. Their eyes gleam for a second, darkly iridescent globes fixed firmly on Dean. And then all three heads shift as one, and Sam finds himself on the receiving end of the ifrins' intense gazes.

"Umm, Dean…"

The two holding Dean suddenly unlock their jaws. He can feel their needle-thin teeth withdraw as their heads too swivel around to focus on Sam. The one on his chest steps down, claws making a tearing-Velcro sound as they pull free of his shirt. He gulps in a quick breath. "Back up, Sam. _Slowly_."

Dean inches backwards on his elbows, but it's like he doesn't even exist for the trackers anymore. They ignore his retreat and step toward his brother, one splitting off to flank Sam, and Dean abandons stealth and pushes to his feet. "Don't move now, Sam. Get ready to throw me the knife."

"It's my only defense!" he protests a little shrilly, barely moving his lips.

"Just go with me!" Dean spins and takes off running. "Now, Sam!" he yells back.

Sam hurls Ruby's knife across the parking lot. Dean's a pale smudge in the twilight as he leaps to intercept it. For another three beats, the trackers' eyes are still trained on Sam, teeth slightly bared in silent menace. And then their heads swivel in unison and they're looking at Dean, backpedaling across the motel lot and waving the knife above his head.

"It's the knife!" Sam gasps. "They're tracking Ruby's knife!" he yells to Dean.

"Get behind the salt lines, Sherlock," Dean yells back. He loops around toward the motel, keeping a wary eye on the ifrin pacing him. Sam scrambles up onto the stoop and as soon as he's through the door, Dean hurls the knife. It drills deep into the endmost support pillar.

The pack stares him down, fanning out with deliberate intent to keep him cornered. Dean's getting a horrible feeling that he's miscalculated and is about to have all five of them trampling him into the dirt, when the one at the front clicks its gaze to the side. The others' eyes shift in synch. As they slink toward the walkway, Dean dodges behind them and heads for the door.

Sam meets him as he sprints up, tossing Dean a crowbar and raising his own. "Want to take out a few while we have the chance?"

The ifrin have surrounded the porch pillar, round eyes trained upward at the knife stuck above their heads. One rears up on its back four legs, and then ratchets higher onto the rear pair, jaws snapping at the hilt.

Dean swings, spitting the nearest ifrin's skull and tossing it off the stoop with a hard flick of the crowbar. Sam slides in to take his place and impales a second, prying the slack body off his crowbar with his foot and kicking it away.

They're extremely narrowly focused, but not so single-minded that they won't defend themselves. The rearing one keeps straining for Ruby's knife, but the other two spin around, teeth bared. Dean slams down his crowbar and dispatches one of them and bumps Sam backward as it goes limp. "Leave the rest. Get inside!"

He dodges around the pillar and wrenches the knife free. There's that slight pause while the remaining ifrin re-orient on their target and then their muscles tense. Dean tosses the knife underhand before they can spring. Sam snatches it, steps back through the door, and stretches to stab it into the door lintel.

Dean scrambles for the relative safety behind the wards. Just as he reaches the door, the neon motel sign buzzes and flickers. Half the letters spelling _The Outpost_ are burned out anyway, and Dean wouldn't count it as significant except that the lanterns outside each door start to flicker as well.

He whirls around. For a second, desperate hope flares. The porch lantern by his head blinks a demented Morse code, and when a figure strides out of the darkness, Dean steps down to meet it.

It's a girl.

The desperate, _stupid_ hope shrivels. Dean eyes the diminutive figure with resignation. She's ridiculously pretty, smooth caramel skin and a riot of flame-colored curls tumbling in artful disarray down her back, all curvy in snug leather pants and lace-trimmed camisole. She stops just inside the circle of porch light, four more ifrin milling around her spike-heeled boots. With a mischievous smile, she flicks a long thorn-studded branch, and the two trackers prowling beside Dean break away and join her pack.

"Dean Winchester." She looks adorably delighted to see him, and then she shifts wide brown eyes past his shoulder and giggles, a musical little burble of sound. "And _Sam_ Winchester!"

"What're you, the Master of the Hounds? Where's your red jacket?" Very carefully, Dean eases one foot back and shifts his weight onto it.

She brushes him with the barest glance and goes right back to gazing through the doorway at Sam, tongue-tip peeking out to sweep her full pink lips. "I prefer Hunt Master, actually." She skims a second brief glance over Dean as he edges back another step and then beams a radiant, nose-crinkling smile at Sam. "You can call me Gina."

"Yeah, it's a pleasure and all that shit." The heel of Dean's boot bumps the stoop, and he steps back up and onto it. "Where's Castiel?"

Gina rises on tiptoes and makes a show of peering into the motel room, craning side to side in a pretense of scanning every corner. She turns a satisfied little smirk on Dean, and good god, she even has a _dimple_. "I see your little dove has flown the coop."

Dean's fist closes convulsively on the crowbar. "What've you done with him?"

She looks over her shoulder and makes a noise, an ugly little rattle that doesn't sound remotely human; the ifrin settle on their haunches, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the motel door. Gina turns back, disinterested gaze glancing off Dean before returning unerringly to Sam. "Oh, not me, sunshine. What would I want with a filthy angel? Might give me bird flu or something."

Dean moves sideways to block the door. "You're lying."

She rolls her eyes. "Believe what you want. I'm here for something else."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

She tosses aside the branch and raises one slender brown hand, palm out. Solid black shutters down across the sparkling brown of her eyes. Dean flies backwards through the door, the crowbar windmilling away after it clips the doorframe. His boot heels pop over the sill and drag through the saltline and then he knocks Sam aside as he passes. Dean slams into the far wall, hard enough that the flimsy paneling buckles.

Gina taps across the stoop, hips swaying. She leans past the threshold and clicks her tongue. "Very sloppy, guys. I'd expect better of you, considering your reputations. Even I've heard talk of you, and I've been tucked up in the kennels for the last century or so." She extends one foot and taps her toes on the scarred wooden floor.

The devil's trap drawn there doesn't snare her. Where the pointed toe of her boot is tapping is a splintery knot. It's left the merest break in the markered lines, but it's enough to let Gina walk across them freely. She plunks her hands on her hips and shimmies over the scattered salt and into the motel room, kicking the door shut behind her.

Sam scrambles up and lunges for the knife embedded above the door. He gets within a hand's breadth of it before Gina tosses up her hand and slams him to a stop. He stiffens, trying to wrench away, but the only thing that happens is his arms snap tight to his sides and Gina smiles lovingly.

"Sam. Sam Winchester. Can I call you Sammy?" She circles him slowly, trailing her fingers teasingly across his chest and then his twitching shoulders and back as she moves around him. "I know you let Ruby call you that. In fact, she screamed it for you, didn't she?" Her eyes roll back to deep brown, and her lips part moistly. She stretches on tiptoe to reach his ear and stage-whisper into it, "You're legendary in some circles, Sammy Winchester—you are the only one since the demon you knew as Tammi to make Ruby scream like that."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Dean's still pinned flat to the wall, straining futilely to peel forward off the creaking paneling. "What, you're in heat or something? Get your hands off him, you horny little bitch."

She giggles, another musical little cascade, but when she whips around, serpent-fast, her eyes are pitch black again. Her hand snaps out and a wave of current slams into Dean, punching his breath out and smacking the back of his head hard on the wall. "Watch your language, _sunshine_. We don't need you—our orders are to kill you on sight. I'm doing you a favor by letting you have one last vicarious thrill before I rip your heart out and deliver it to Lucifer." She flicks her fingers and another surge rams Dean into the wall. "So shut up and enjoy the show and when I'm done I'll make it quick."

"Watching a demon bitch screw my little brother is nowhere near the top of my list of things to do before I die," he wheezes.

Gina gives her hijacked body a little shimmy, running her fingers through the riot of red curls and blinking her eyes brown again. "Aren't you going to tell us to get a room? Oh, that's right, we have one—it just happens to come with a voyeur." She strolls over, pushing close enough to Dean that her hair tickles his nose. "Ruby liked it when you called her 'bitch'. I don't. Say it again and I'll rip your tongue out by the roots. And any other words – whore, slut, you get the idea – count for double body parts." She reaches up, and he tries to jerk back, but his head is immobilized. Softly she strokes a fingertip across each of his eyelids in turn. She draws back, smiling, and when Dean tries to blink, his eyes are frozen open. "Like I said—enjoy the show."

A second later, Gina is at Sam's side again, circling him with heat glowing behind her deep brown eyes. She traces her fingers across the back of his hand, pausing to draw little circles over his wristbone, and then walks them playfully up his arm. When she reaches his shoulder, she pauses again, fluttering her fingernails in the tears in his shirt. "My pets didn't hurt you, did they?" She clicks her tongue. "Poor baby—I compelled them not to be too rough, but I better check, hmm?"

From behind them comes a strangled groan. Gina smiles and drags at Sam's sleeve until it slides down his arm. She leaves his button-down hanging down his other shoulder and goes to work rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, one hand curling to fit the curve of his shoulder. A second later, she's practically climbing him, ankle hooking around one long leg and hitching herself up onto him. Sam's helpless to do anything but roll his eyes ceiling-ward as a blush rushes up his neck and cheeks.

Dean's making noises like he's choking. Having an audience just seems to egg Gina on and it's entirely possible she's using some kind of demon mojo to sprout a couple extra pairs of hands. Sam jumps inside his skin as those hands keep turning up in unexpected places, squeezing and kneading and—holy crap! With his _brother_ watching!

She nuzzles her way up his chest to press an open-mouth kiss to the base of his throat. "_Bleah!_" Gina rears back in disgust. "You taste like holy water." She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth. "How did you know to do that?"

"Castiel told us."

"Oh, right, the angel." Gina settles back on her heels and peers up – and up – at Sam through her lashes. "Yeah, he was one of the ones who went storming through Hell, I heard. If he was responsible for decimating my kennels I hope I do get a crack at him."

"Where was he taken?" Sam asks quickly.

"No idea. I told you, I have other… _reasons_… for being here." She takes hold of his belt buckle and wrenches it open. "I meant it, Sammy—you have quite the reputation, apart from the hunter thing. Sooo… I've got a little bargain for you." She winks and pops the button on his waistband.

"I'm not making any deals with you," Sam says to the accompaniment of Dean's frantic shout of "Sam, don't!"

"But you'll like this one." Slowly she pulls his fly apart so the zipper rolls down with a faint clicking. "I release you enough so you can perform for me… Shut up, you!" she breaks off to snarl, as Dean lets loose with a string of insults and threats. "…And I will give you what you're craving."

She bends her knee and snakes one hand back to her boot, producing a small elaborately carved dagger. She holds it up so Sam can see its razor-sharp edge, and when she waves it back and forth, his eyes follow it helplessly.

"Don't even _think_ it, Sam!"

"I know you're thirsty," Gina croons. "You be good to me, I'll be good to you."

Sam's throat bobs as he swallows. "I don't need it anymore."

"You sure about that?" She smoothes back his hair, hand trailing down to caress his cheek. "You haven't eaten in days because the blood is the only thing that'll satisfy you." Her fingers move lower, brushing his lips, and then she turns her wrist so it's only inches from his face. Sam's eyes flutter as he draws in a long breath through his nose.

"Sam, if you do this, so help me…"

"_Shut up, Dean!_"

Sam's eyes are wild as he screams at his brother, and when he moistens his lips with a dart of his tongue, Gina smiles.

"Take the bargain, Sammy. We both know you want to."

A shudder rocks his frozen body. "You swear I can drink if I do you?"

Behind them, Dean groans, unable to sag in defeat or even look away from his brother's downfall.

Gina's eyes flip black in triumph. "I swear," she hisses, and snaps her wrist so the dagger flies across the room and 'thunks' into the headboard of the nearer bed. She throws her hand palm outward and Sam gasps as his muscles unlock.

Gina seizes the back of his waistband and slings him around. He reaches for her, but she twists free with a sharp laugh and places both hands on his chest, shoving hard. Sam falls backward, bouncing a little on the mattress, and she laughs again as he half-rises and makes a desperate grab for her. She palms him back down, and when the pressure flattens him to the bed, she jumps him.

Sam arches his hips to meet her, prompting an obscene little purr from Gina as she settles astride his legs.

"Your brother's watching."

"Good."

"Kinky." She stretches out sinuously along the length of him, one hand sneaking down to tug at his shorts. "But that's a given, considering who you choose to…"

Gina's voice trails away, and the sultry look wipes clean off her face. It's Sam's turn to smile, a feral grin that bares his teeth as he flips her so she takes his place on her back in the middle of the bed.

The paneling makes a popping sound as it bows back out and Dean drops free. Sam rolls to his feet, hauling at his drooping jeans while Gina twists, her struggles becoming more frantic as the seconds pass.

Dean strolls over and tugs the dagger out of the headboard, the swagger somewhat spoiled by the way he's pawing at his red, scratchy eyes. When he's blinked a little moisture back into them, he leans over the trapped demon with a smirk. "Gotcha."

Gina explodes in a frenzy of kicking and punching, a howl of pure rage scouring her throat raw. Dean waits it out, arms folded, watching her claw at the air.

Finally she subsides, chest heaving, red blotches marring her flawless complexion. Her hair's a huge snarled tangle around her head, and spittle flecks lips stretched in a grotesque grimace.

"You done?" Dean asks mildly, and she hisses, eyes flipping to deadly black. "I hope you're done, 'cuz I have a few questions I need answered, and I'm feeling a little impatient."

"You think you're so clever," she rasps.

"Oh, I'm kinda clever." Dean flings back the spread on the second bed and tilts the mattress so Gina can see the devil's trap drawn on it. "Now if I were _real_ clever, I'd've figured out a way to get you on that bed without having to watch you grope my brother." He drops the mattress back in place. "I'm gonna have to bleach my eyeballs."

"I can arrange that."

"Sorry, sister, another time, maybe." Dean raises a hand to catch the bundle of dingy white cloth Sam tosses at him, and with an economy of motion untangles torn-up strips of bedsheets and secures Gina's wrists and ankles and waist to the bedframe.

"You'd have been shit out of luck if a demon who wasn't into guys found you first."

Sam comes over with Ruby's knife and one of the water glasses. "What makes you think the beds were the only things booby-trapped?" he asks. He dunks the knife and swirls it through the holy water while Gina's eyes widen involuntarily.

Dean's watching her reaction. He crouches so he's eye-level with her and his voice is deceptively soft. "You remember who my teacher was, don't you?" When she doesn't respond, he leans closer, scaring a flinch from her. "_Don't you?_"

This time she jerks a little nod.

Sam finishes swirling the knife and hands it, dripping, to Dean. "I'm not screwing around here, Gina, or whatever your real name is. I'm giving you one chance to answer me, truthfully, and then I start hurting you."

His voice drawls from out of the dark place behind his ribs. Tiny beads of sweat pop out along Gina's hairline. "She's still in here," she blurts. "The girl, Gina—she's still alive. You carve me, you kill her."

Dean straightens and raises Ruby's knife, turning it so the blade flashes dully in the ambient glow from the bathroom light fixture. A drop of water slides down the groove in the blade, and he holds it out so it's poised above Gina's low neckline. The droplet sizzles when it spills off the tip and lands on her breastbone. "I spent a lot of years slicing up pretty young things. What's one more?"

"She's a detective," the demon says quickly. "One of the good guys."

"Cops have been making my life miserable for years. Try again."

Her tongue peeks out to moisten her lips, and there's nothing sexual about the gesture now. Dean's turning the knife in his fingers, his expression frighteningly remote, and Gina can't tear her gaze from him.

"Is this about the angel? Because I told you—I didn't take him."

"Who did?"

"Not one of us. You're supposed to be Heaven's ace for killing Lucifer, right? Our orders were to find you and kill you first. Sam was the prize for completing the mission. That's all—nothing about angels."

Dean leans forward and places the tip of the knifeblade at the base of her throat; it sizzles, like water to heated metal, and she squirms as a wisp of smoke curls up. "See, I think you're lying. You followed a blood trail to us, didn't you?"

She's trying not to move, but when the point digs a millimeter deeper, a whimper sneaks out between her lips and she nods quickly.

"You followed Ruby's blood, not ours. On this knife," and Dean snicks it down a notch, blood welling in the resulting scratch, "that I used to kill her. So how did you know to show up so fast at St. Mary's to pick up the trail?"

There's real fear in her eyes now, but she presses her lips together. Dean slices the blade down another notch, catches her gaze, and bends close. "I killed her with a single thrust," he whispers. "And I'm a little sorry I didn't make it last, and last… and last. Got a second chance to get it right with you."

She twists her lips in a pitiful attempt at a sneer. "I'll scream this place down, and when the cops see your kidnapping, detective-mutilating handiwork, they'll come down on you like, well, Armageddon. They'll do my work for me, shoot you to hell for 'resisting arrest'."

"There's no one else here but the manager, and I made sure he had a bottle of Cuervo as a tip for the turn-down service," Sam says. "Scream away, because he's dead to the world by now."

Gina looks at him, leaning one shoulder on the bathroom doorframe with a bored expression, a can of salt in one hand and a big plastic tumbler full of holy water in the other. And then she cuts her eyes to his brother, the one known to be Alastair's star pupil, even whispered to be his successor if that holy little shit hadn't yanked him out of school too soon.

Gut-churning terror snaps Gina's defiance like a rotten rubber band.

"The demons don't have your _fucking_ angel, one of his brothers does." She watches alarm wipe away the remoteness of Dean's expression, and her lips split in a vicious grin despite her fear. "Not all the angels want Lucifer dead, you know—some of them just want their Fallen brother back. So one of them approached us; he wants you out of the picture, but lost sight of you for some reason. My job was to track you down and package you up for him—he says you're hard to kill and he wants to do it himself."

She swallows, and a bead of dark crimson squeezes out with the motion and rolls down her neck. "The angel killed two of my pack—I made sure the deal broker knew where, and he sent someone to collect him. Got him out of my way so I could get to you."

Gina sags back, panting, gloating a little at Dean's obvious distress. He withdraws the knife and shifts to block Sam's view while he swipes away the blood with his thumb.

"What about Sam?"

"He's done his part as far as they're concerned. He really did say we could have Sam as a bonus for you and the traitor."

"Who's 'he'? Which Pro-Lucifer groupie are we talking about here?"

She closes her eyes, drained and defeated. "Smarmy bastard named Zachariah."

Her eyes pop right back open again when Dean explodes with incredulous laughter. "Oh, sweetheart, you've been had! 'Demons lie'—hell, they've got nothing on angels!" He grins mockingly down at Gina. "Zachariah doesn't want Lucifer free and me dead—well, not yet, anyway. He's the one pulling all the strings to get me to ice ol' Luci!"

Gina's eyes go black and she shrieks. "That double-crossing feathered _shit_…!" Her back arches up as she strains against the restraints and the trap, tendons snapping into stark lines down her neck and arms. "I should have killed you when I walked in the door!" she snarls.

"Too late now." Dean shrugs. He motions for Sam to hand him the glass of holy water. "I'm ready to call it a night, so let's wrap this up." He dips the knife, gives it a little swirl for effect. "Where'd Zachariah take Castiel?"

"I don't know." Gina's eyes bulge and she squirms frantically as Dean tilts the knife so droplets rain down and spatter, sizzling, against her skin. "_I don't!_ He didn't say! He just said to grab you and signal!" Her voice rises on a terrified scream.

"You are sheltered; I haven't even gotten started yet." Dean bends close and she cowers. "Let's try this—where were you supposed to take _me_?"

For a long moment Gina just stares, one last attempt at bravado that dies as the stony coldness Dean's radiating doesn't waver.

"Just to the Ohio border," she croaks finally. "He said to kick up another storm and he'd see me, that that was as close as I should get. Said he had some kind of 'ultimate protection'—I thought he meant Lucifer."

Dean jerks back, eyes widening. He spins, and Sam raises his eyebrows. "I know where he is," Dean says urgently. "How fast can you exorcise this bitch back to Hell?"

Sam pushes off the wall. "I'm a little out of practice with the old-fashioned method, but I bet I can do it in under fifteen minutes."

"Make it ten—we'll have to get the girl someplace safe."

"Don't!" Gina's wrenching at the knotted bedsheets, her fingers scrabbling uselessly on the sleazy bedspread. "I helped you out, I wasn't going to hurt Sam at all, that has to count for something! Can't you just let me go? I'll help you track down this Zachariah, I will, I swear it…"

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_…" Sam begins, and Gina's voice escalates into a despairing scream.

* * *

Chuck Shurley nudged the curtains apart and peeked out at the street. The cops were still there; he could see the front end of the unmarked car poking out from behind the forsythia at the end of the block. They probably had some kind of spy scope trained on his window right this second.

He shivered and scanned slowly up the street. Mrs. Hamilton was still at her post in her bay window, staring fixedly at the front of his house, just daring something else strange to occur.

He let the curtains fall back into place and squared his shoulders. Might as well give them all something to stare _at_. He bent, seized the neck of the bulging trash bag by his feet, and flung open his door.

He could _feel_ the surveillance camera clicking away as he thumped the bag down the porch steps. "'4:09 p.m. : subject transfers bag to curb, contents unknown'," Chuck muttered. He heaved it into the growing pile at the end of his front walk and glared down at the heap. "I left the top open so you can dig through my trash!" he yelled toward the partially-hidden car, a sudden flash of daring overtaking common sense.

His nerve deserted him just that quickly. What was he thinking, taunting the cops who were watching his every move? Chuck hunched over and scurried back up his walk. He'd best keep his head down and go back to plowing through the rubble of his kitchen.

Once inside he turned dejectedly in a circle. Four of his fingers and a thumb had bandaids – okay, they were strips of toilet paper covered in tape – wrapped around them, but except for a gritty residue under his feet, all the broken glass was cleared away. Chilly air blew through the empty window panes, but the glass guy had wanted cash up front to replace them.

Chuck didn't have the cash to replace a single shattered liquor bottle, let alone twenty-three windows, the front door pane, and a storm door.

The fridge was dead, too.

Chuck halted his shuffling circle and stared morosely at it, trying to decide if he was brave enough to open it and start mucking it out. It had been kind of a compost bin even before it spent 24 hours powered down while the cops took turns with him in that interrogation chamber.

Interview room. Whatever.

He stared harder at the door, trying to remember if there'd been a beer or two left before an archangel got dropped on his house, and if so, could it have survived, and if it had, was it worth the tsunami of fetid air that would swamp what was left of his kitchen if he opened the fridge to find out.

No. Not worth it, not yet. He'd try and salvage another box full of belongings and then go out to Wal-Mart for duct tape and plastic. If he showed up right before closing, they might not notice his credit card was maybe over its limit. He could stop at the liquor store on his way home.

Newly focused on a plan of action, Chuck picked up a carton and swung toward the living room. "YAAA!" he screamed, and threw the box at the ceiling.

Zachariah appeared in the center of the room without so much as a flap of warning. He glanced around with mild curiosity as he settled his jacket neatly on his shoulders and tweaked his cuffs. "Hello, Chuck."

Chuck cringed against the wall, gasping. "Could you _not_ do that?" he snapped, and then blanched and added hastily, "Uh, _please_. And, uh, _sir_."

Zachariah's bland smile didn't falter, but it wasn't reaching his eyes, either. He stepped, a little fussily, over a jumble of broken-spined books and motioned for Chuck to straighten up. "Your house is needed for angelic business. It would be best if you gathered some food and water and took yourself off to your bedroom upstairs."

His hands were shaking, so Chuck jammed them in his pockets. "I think I'd rather let you do your angel business in private, okay?" He pasted a sickly smile on his face and edged sideways. "I've got to pick up plastic to cover my windows, and, uh, a new coffee pot… and mugs!" He was almost to the back door. "Yeah, pretty much everything needs replacing, so I'll, uh, just go and do that and it'll take awhile so you can do your business and I'll stay out of it."

Chuck sneaked one hand behind his back, fumbling for the doorknob. The metal was slick in his sweaty fingers, and his pulse kicked into high gear as he fought to turn it. Finally he got enough traction to twist the knob.

The latch didn't release.

Abandoning nonchalance, Chuck spun and seized the doorknob in both hands and wrenched it back and forth in sudden panic.

Nothing. He slammed his shoulder into the door (and that hurt, kinda) and yanked on it again and _nothing happened._ Hell, it didn't even shake in its frame.

"Chuck."

Reluctantly he turned, pressing his back to the sealed door. Zachariah was smiling at him from across the kitchen, all placid benevolence on the surface, but radiating an undercurrent of menace that Chuck decided freaked him the fuck out.

"Your house is needed with_ you_ in it," Zachariah explained. Lips pursing slightly, he waved overhead. "You know—the all-powerful embrace of the archangel spread protectively around your presence."

"It's still up there?" Chuck squeaked.

"Certainly is! And a good thing, too. You never know who might drop in to interrupt the holy works of angels. Now why don't you run yourself a glass of water and grab a box of cereal and trot upstairs, hmm?"

Chuck didn't bother pointing out that as a result of the archangel's last visit, all his dishware had ended up in trash bags at the curb. He pushed slowly off the door. "Umm, yeah… glass of water, sure." With forced casualness, he moved to the sink and opened the tap. As cold water gushed into the basin, he took a deep breath and heaved himself abruptly – and not all that gracefully – up onto the counter. With a sweep of his arm, he ripped the blinds from their brackets and lunged for the glassless window.

Chuck's head rebounded silently from the seemingly-open space, hard enough that his eyes crossed. Arms flailing, he toppled off the counter and landed with a crash on the floor.

When his eyeballs stopped bouncing around his skull, Chuck tipped his head back to see the angel looming above him.

"Get up."

The false cheer had vanished from Zachariah's face. Chuck rolled over, and when he was on his feet, the angel pointed. Chuck trailed into the living room. With a gesture, Zachariah sent the blanket-draped couch sliding across the room to slam into the near wall, loosing a rain of plaster dust from the cracked ceiling.

"Sit down," Zachariah ordered.

Chuck sat.

Huddled in the corner of his paper-strewn couch, he watched the angel prowl the circumference of the room, studying the walls. Zachariah drew his arm sideways with a controlled flourish, and a table and lamp and overflowing bookshelf all went crashing into the corner, leaving a broad swath of the back wall bare.

The air shifted in advance of beating wings. Chuck yelped and ducked into the cushions as an elderly man appeared, one arm extended behind him. His head turned sharply, like a bird of prey, as he looked back along his arm. He tugged, and a second figure fell out of the air and down into the room, stumbling as he was brought up short by the angel's hand clenched tight around one arm.

Zachariah's flat pale eyes lit up with triumph. "Castiel." His lip curled in an insufferable smirk. "Welcome back, kiddo."

* * *

_Okay, so I've watched, re-watched, and watched again Monster at the End of this Book and Lucifer Rising, checked screencaps, and searched online, and I can find no mention of where Chuck lives. His address is on his computer screen in the scene near the end of LF, and though my eyes are too bad to read the town, I think the state is OH. Likewise, I can't read the patches on the sheriff's jackets at the bridge in MatEotB, but the license plates on the other cars in the ep. are Ohio plates. So I am operating under the assumption that Chuck lives in Ohio. If this turns out to be wrong, I apologize._


	3. Underneath Orion's sword

See part 1 for disclaimers & notes.

I'm amazed and grateful so many people are reading this. Thank you from the bottom of my strange, angel!whumping heart :)

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 3**

* * *

A little after 3 a.m., Dean pulls over to take a break.

More accurately, he's pretty much forced to take a break when he jolts awake on the shoulder. He just blinked once as he drifted along on a steady buzz, tires humming over the lines in the pavement… and then the right side of the car dips and it jounces heavily as it hits soft ground. He startles, instinctively stomping the brake.

Sam flies forward and Dean shoots an arm out to catch him before he hits the dash. Because the Nova's more compact than his muscle memory of the Impala, he ends up smacking Sam hard in the ribs.

They rock back in their seats, hearts pounding, as the car settles. To his credit, Sam doesn't bitch; he just pushes himself back up in the seat and slides a sideways glance at his brother.

"You okay?"

Dean's got both hands clamped on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the treeline revealed in the tipped-up high beams. He clears his throat but his voice is still foggy. "I'm good."

"Mm." Sam could stretch his arm and touch the branches along the roadside if he rolled down his window. "Let me drive."

"I got it," Dean insists, but there's no conviction behind the words. Sam gets out and comes around to the driver's side and yanks Dean's door open.

"Switch places."

"I _got_ it, Sam. Get back in the car. Next place I see, I'll pull in and get some coffee."

"Nope." Sam's heart rate has returned to normal, and for the first time in days he feels calm and in control. "Any more caffeine and you're gonna go into tachycardia. You've had, what? Four hours of sleep in the last 48 hours? I'll drive."

"I _said_ I was okay. Get back in the car so we can keep going."

"What good are you going to be to him if you're a wreck by the time we get there?"

His brother's red-rimmed eyes blink, and for a second Sam thinks he's going to give in. Then Dean shakes his head.

"You haven't eaten in nearly a week. You'll pass out behind the wheel and kill us both."

The road is dark and deserted; the only light is that cast by the Nova's headlights and dashboard. Dean's face is mostly hidden by the deeply angled shadows, but Sam doesn't need to see him to sense his growing desperation, the kind that drives his brother to do irrational things.

Sam thinks they're about halfway across Illinois, thinks maybe they passed Peoria a ways back while he was half-asleep, head resting uncomfortably against his arm on the door. They have a long way to go yet. He drapes his arms over the open door and listens while the spring peepers start up again, their shrill calls almost as loud as the idling engine.

"Okay, look," he says finally. "I'll make you a deal." He sees Dean flinch, but presses on anyway. "I'll eat something from the next place we pass if you sack out until morning. I know you don't really trust me, but driving'll give me something to do. It's not like I'd be risking the Impala."

"It's not that, Sam…" Dean mumbles and he rests his head on the wheel, and Sam knows he's got him.

"I know," Sam says quietly. "It's more like you can't rest until you've found him. I saw you do this with Dad, remember." He tugs on Dean's arm, and his brother slowly, reluctantly, swings his legs out of the car and slumps there for a minute, elbows resting on his knees. "You're the one who was always on my case to pace myself."

"I am pacing myself."

"Running into the ground is not pacing, Dean. Get in the passenger seat."

He drops off and snorts awake in an exhausting cycle all the way to the next 24-hour café, waking for good when Sam pulls in and switches off the engine. "Wh're we?"

"Just outside Bloomington."

"'K." He half-falls out the door. "Gonna take a leak. Get me pie."

A sleepy-eyed waitress with grease spots on her mint-green uniform hands off plates of food and then retreats to the end of the counter, leaving them in peace, and Sam, thank christ, takes a bite of eggs.

"Was what she said true?" Dean asks around a mouthful of pastry.

"Who?"

"Demon-Gina." He lowers his voice. "You're not eating because you're only hungry for blood?"

"I'm eating." Sam takes another forkful as proof.

"Sam."

"Okay, no. That's not why. I'm just… I'm so sick to my stomach I can hardly swallow. I'll try not to puke this up. Just don't… don't expect me to start right up with three squares a day, okay?"

"Okay, Sam. As long as you're trying, okay."

When they finish, Dean takes shotgun without protest. "Wake me at dawn."

"Yes, Dean."

"And if you start feeling woozy, wake me early."

"Yes, Dean."

"If you see anything weird, or any black things show up…"

"Let me guess—wake you up. I got it, Dean. Shut up and sleep, I can do this."

Dean slumps in the seat, folding his arms on his stomach. Sam pulls smoothly onto the road, the lights on the café sign flashing bright red for a second across Dean's lap.

As the Nova picks up speed, Dean realizes with a pang that he never got Cas that promised cup of coffee.

* * *

The crack of a hard hand against flesh resonates through the room, and Castiel reels aside. Chuck yelps in protest. The angel in the elderly vessel snaps a hawk-like stare at him and he clamps his mouth shut and shrinks into the couch.

"That's for your little stunt with the bloodspell," Zachariah says coldly.

Castiel draws himself up, blood leaking from a split lip. The other two angels' human appearances are deceiving—there's a great deal of power banked inside those aging vessels. Zachariah has never liked soiling his own hands, but it looks as if he's about to make an exception.

He slowly circles Castiel with a predatory gleam in his pale eyes, and Castiel moves in counterpoint, keeping his right side turned away as much as possible. Zachariah smiles.

"It's no use. I can see the torn places. Ended up a chew-toy, didn't you?"

"You know about those foul things tracking Dean?" The compulsion to be silent is wearing off, but Castiel's tongue still feels thick and clumsy.

"I set them in motion." As Castiel raises shocked eyes, Zachariah shrugs. "Desperate times. Keeping an open mind is why I'm standing on top of the heap, kiddo."

He strolls closer, and Castiel can feel from the prickling in his feathers that he's being herded into the corner. He spins aside quickly, but Zachariah is quicker—his hand strikes out and catches Castiel's cheek with the back of his knuckles, another of those resounding cracks slicing the air.

He staggers, tripping around a low table tilting three-legged beneath fallen plaster and lath. There's blood swirling behind his teeth, and more oozing down his face. The second angel moves to cut him off, but Zachariah waves him off.

"I want to handle this myself, Titus. Go and watch for the kennel bitch's signal that she has the Winchesters."

An icy chill swamps Castiel, and his eyes fall closed for an instant. He hears the rustle of Titus' departure, and Chuck moans. "Oh, god, what are you doing?"

"Cleaning up the mess left by Castiel's disloyalty," Zachariah snaps.

"You have to do it here? Can't you leave me in peace in what's left of my house?" Chuck waves his arms at the destruction left by the archangel. "My TV's busted, I don't have any dishes left, my _toilet_ exploded. My computer was fried even before the cops confiscated it! They dragged me to the station and the news was on there, and something really strange happened in Maryland." He slides off the couch. He's pale, but there's a stubborn set to his mouth. "It worked, didn't it? You really got Sam to let Lucifer out and now he's walking the earth planning his big hostile takeover! So why's your angel business here instead of out there tracking him down?"

"I have people for that." Zachariah glares down at Chuck. "Now sit down and be quiet. You had your chance to sit this out and you chose to be annoying." For those few seconds his attention is fully focused on Chuck.

A second is all Castiel needs.

He launches across the room and smashes into Zachariah, catching him in the chest with his shoulder. The other angel goes down hard, plowing across the littered floor and into the couch. It rocks with the impact, and Chuck shrieks and leaps back up on the cushions.

Zachariah's neck is jammed at an acute angle against the base of the couch. Castiel seizes his head in both hands and slams it down so hard the floorboards crack. He draws back a fist, intending to drive it into Zachariah's throat. Before he can strike, Zachariah flexes his back. With a hard popping sound like a banner streaming in a gale, his wings unfurl and propel him from beneath his adversary.

The resulting blast throws Castiel clear into the kitchen. He can't get his own wing spread in time to slow himself, and he hits something boxy and metallic with jarring force. It crushes his trailing wing against an angular edge.

The pain is excruciating. The tears left by the ifrins' teeth burst open, skin connecting feathers splitting to the bone.

He bounces down onto a sticky floor and screams.

His vision whites out as an earsplitting buzz fills the air, rebounding off the barrier sealing the house. Castiel twists, blood-streaked saliva pooling beneath his chin. Faintly he can hear Chuck screaming, "Stop! Stop it! No more!" and he does not know if he means the violence or his voice.

The floor vibrates with rapid footsteps. Something thuds heavily into his stomach, lifting and flipping him, and he rolls helplessly until he is brought up short by table legs, his broken wing wrapped in a mangled cloak about him.

Zachariah towers over Castiel, eyes glittering, jaw clenched tightly enough to crack molars. Castiel blinks away blood and struggles to sit up, unwilling to face such rage while sprawled on the floor.

_And it is claimed we are without emotion_, he thinks hazily.

Somehow he finds his feet. Feathers are falling away behind him, but he cannot be concerned. Zachariah is waiting, wings half-extended. Dirt is ground into his suit and the side of his head bears a deeply indented smudge of blood, but the air around him crackles with restless energy.

Castiel's fingers catch the lip of the counter and shakily he hauls himself up. Bones grind as he shifts his wing behind him. There is something deeply amiss in his shoulder; his right hand has gone numb, and when he tries to move his arm, the pain lights up in the joint like a flare. He thinks he has taken a step forward, but finds a cupboard is beneath his back instead.

Zachariah watches, amusement pasted like a mask on his face. His wings dip, and he shakes his head. "You always were less warrior than scholar, weren't you?" He gives himself an irritated little shake and instantly his clothing is immaculate again.

There is no point in remaining hidden now—Castiel pushes a quick surge of healing through the vessel. It is not nearly enough, only sufficient to get him moving. He shoves off the cupboard, leading with his left shoulder as if he intends to slam into Zachariah again. Instead, too quickly for human eyes to track, he lashes one foot out. The crunch of Zachariah's knee snapping sounds thick and wet and caves him to one side as Castiel spins past.

A blast of air batters him back into the living room. Zachariah is still upright, wings outspread in compensation for his suddenly crippled leg. A mocking laugh peals out and the massive wings flex again, the draft knocking Castiel to the wall. Current needles his skin, blowback from the healing shooting through Zachariah into his knee. He furls his wings and gives a negligent wave of his hand.

Castiel is ground mercilessly into the wall at the back of Chuck's living room.

The fight has left him stunned, chest hitching in agony from the crushed and twisted bones at his back. He tries to rock forward, tries to wrench his shoulders loose. Zachariah is not even straining to hold him. He studies his fingernails in exaggerated boredom, buffing them on his jacket sleeve, all the while pushing Castiel into the wall so hard his ribs creak.

"You have only yourself to blame for this situation, Castiel," he chides. "All that effort to readjust your thinking and the minute my back is turned you betray your brethren all over again." He pulls a sorrowful face, but beneath the veneer of false grief lies real anger. Castiel can feel it leaking around the edges of Zachariah's vessel, simmering heat that jerks an involuntary flinch from him when Zachariah crowds close.

"Not to worry," he says softly, breath stirring the hair by Castiel's ear. "You've caused only a slight detour. I still need Dean Winchester to kill Lucifer, it's true, but I've worked out just how you'll get him to do what I require."

Castiel coughs against the trickle of blood in his throat. "You deceived him. He will never assist you again."

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it—he will, and with a vengeance." Zachariah draws back, beaming smugly at the battered figure before him.

He points two fingers, and heavy pressure settles atop Castiel's shoulders. His eyes widen; he tenses against it reflexively. Zachariah twitches his fingers downward, increasing the pressure, and Castiel pushes harder even as his knees begin to shake. Zachariah motions more emphatically, his eyes tightening with annoyance. The pressure becomes a crushing weight.

Castiel buckles. He crashes to his knees on the Prophet's floor.

"That's better." Zachariah clasps his hands behind his back and beams approvingly at the kneeling angel. "Penitent—I like that. Perhaps you can reflect upon your sins while I wait for a delivery. And when it arrives, we can begin."

"Begin what?"

Zachariah swings around in mock surprise, as if he's forgotten Chuck is still huddled on his couch. "I thought I told you to be quiet. Something you need to share with us, Prophet?"

Chuck shakes his head. "I just want to know what you're going to do to him." He swallows hard and pushes his fingers against his temples. "I haven't had a vision since the convent." His hands fall to his lap as Zachariah cocks his head, the bright, beady cast to his eyes oddly suspect. "But you knew that already, didn't you?" he asks slowly.

The angel spreads his hands, smirking. "You yourself wrote down that angels are the agents of fate. And so we are. You are but our mouthpiece." He strides to the couch, prompting Chuck to scramble along it, retreating to the far corner. "Relax. Let me show you what I mean."

He bends forward, hands coming to rest on the back of the couch on either side of Chuck's head. His lips brush the man's forehead, and Chuck's eyes roll back, lashes fluttering as he stiffens. When Zachariah draws back, a moment passes before he slumps and draws in a great whoop of breath. Panting, he stares open-mouthed at Zachariah.

"You… you… the visions are from _you_. You created them, stuck them in my head!"

"Of course." Zachariah smiles slyly. "I had a very tight agenda. The best way to make sure the foot soldiers stayed with it was to filter it through a prophet."

Chuck topples sideways, gasping. He clutches his head again, scrubbing at his forehead with shaking fingers as if he can rub out the images within. He looks past Zachariah to Castiel, swaying ever-so-slightly on his knees on the dirty floor, blood slicking his face and wildly ruffled hair. "You're going to kill Castiel," he groans. "Kill your own brother and make it look like Lucifer did it!"

Castiel startles, eyes flying up in shock. Zachariah strolls over and smiles fondly down at him. "I am indeed. Shall I tell you what Chuck sees? Your empty shell is going to be found at the foot of Marblehead Lighthouse – and how do you like that for symbolism? – befouled by demonic sigils and bloodwork and purged by our Fallen brother himself." He pinches Castiel's chin, tipping his battered face upward. "But don't despair, little brother—you'll be the catalyst for Dean to slay Lucifer at last."

Castiel tries to wrench away. "Dean will not be taken in," he says firmly.

"He will. He'll be too enraged to see anything but what I place before his eyes. He'll storm Lucifer's defenses and cut him down in vengeance for your very…_ ugly_… death."

"I'll tell him." Chuck tumbles off the couch in a small avalanche of papers and pizza boxes, and backs away from the sneering angel. "I'll tell Dean _everything_."

"No, you won't." Zachariah releases Castiel's chin with a hard shove and strides after Chuck. Static crackles around him, and he looms over the smaller man. Chuck somehow stands his ground. His chin trembles and his eyes fall closed, but he stands fast in the face of the intimidating figure.

"Let me show you why you won't breathe a word to Dean Winchester," Zachariah continues softly. He takes Chuck's head, hands cupping gently around his ears, and draws him forward to receive another dry kiss on his forehead.

Flashes explode inside his head, like the beginnings of a prophetic dream except much, much more immediate and vivid. Bursts of color, smells, sound—a jumble at first, then lining up into a series of raw moments ripped from people's lives.

An elderly woman, suffocating on her own blood as her throat is slashed through by a huge knife. A small boy, alternately brutalized and then soothed with perverse caresses. An infant ripped from its screaming mother's arms and dashed apart on a stone floor. People set afire, torn to pieces, forced to watch children violated and parents murdered, all in increasingly creative and sickening ways.

Chuck isn't just observing, he's inside their minds—the victims and the perpetrators both. He lives the moments of terror and bloodlust right alongside each person, feels each atrocity as if it is his own. Tears streak his face when Zachariah breaks the contact. The angel's hands clasping his head are the only thing keeping him from crumpling into a quivering ball.

"That was less than half a minute," Zachariah tells him. He pats Chuck's cheek and smiles beatifically. "Now imagine what will be left of your mind if I keep you in the midst of what man inflicts upon his fellow man for hours… or for days, like Castiel." He steers Chuck solicitously over to the couch and thumps the shell-shocked man down. "You'll be on your knees begging Dean to finish the job and put an end to such brutality and suffering."

"Leave him alone," Castiel growls as Chuck curls up and pulls his arms over his head.

Zachariah is suddenly in front of him again, backhanding Castiel with an explosive _crack_ that drives his head to the side. "You are in no position to issue orders," he says blandly. He aims a second blow and Castiel braces himself.

The air shifts. An angel steps down into the room in mid-stride, black boots thudding heavily on the floorboards.

Zachariah lights up with genuine elation. "Morahael. You have it?"

The angel Morahael reaches behind his back. "I do." He draws out a narrow bundle wrapped in pale blue flannel, and presents it, two-handed, to Zachariah.

Zachariah peels aside the cloth and lets it flutter heedlessly to the floor. With something like reverence he lifts out a golden blade and holds it aloft. Even in the dim, dusty confines of Chuck's house the sword gleams softly, the crimson smears on the blade glowing like stained glass.

"I had to convince Anna to tell us where she stashed this," Zachariah says, admiring the sword as he cuts it through the air in slow, looping patterns. "She did… eventually." He brings it to bear on Castiel, the stained blade only inches from his face. "Of course, in the public version, Lucifer retrieved his sword with the help of Uriel's contingent, and slew the one who opposed his release."

A scent like graveyard soil is leaching off the blade; Castiel turns aside in disgust. "What have you done, Zachariah?"

He smiles. "It was… suggested… to me that the blood of an infant, born six minutes after the Lightbringer's rise and tainted by demon possession, might yield _interesting_ effects on an angel. I sent loyal soldiers to follow the demons who were watching likely candidates." He slaps Morahael on the back. "Your brother Morahael here was the lucky winner!"

"You _are_ dealing with demons," Castiel says with quiet horror.

"Why not? Dean's precious Sammy was, and you didn't seem to have a problem with that." He breaks into a broad smile as the words sink in and Castiel bows his head. "Don't despair, kiddo—what's past is past. Now your sacrifice will be remembered for millennia."

He turns and clears the clutter from the nearest tabletop with a sweep of the blade. Chuck doesn't even twitch as notebooks, bottles and a half-squadron of action figures join the rest of the broken odds and ends on the floor. He lays the sword on the table, and when he turns back, he's holding something else, something smaller and ancient and worn. When he rolls it in his palm, one end begins to glow cherry-red. A whiff of brimstone drifts through the air.

Castiel jerks his head up. His stoic expression is wiped away by sudden panic and he twists on his knees in an effort to wrench free. He manages to bend enough to push hard with his hands. The toes of his shoes scrape the floor as he rocks side to side.

"Put him against the wall and hold him—he won't like this," Zachariah says coldly.

A second later Morahael has him by the throat and is propelling him up off his knees and back until he slams into the wall. Chuck's house quakes with the impact and a crack runs up the plaster, clear to the angle where wall and ceiling meet. A broad hand tattooed with a finely detailed cross spreads over Castiel's throat, the heel grinding into the hollow just above his breastbone.

"Don't help him do this!" Castiel gasps.

Morahael cocks his head, mirroring Castiel when he is curious or perplexed. The resemblance, both surface and internal, ends there. Morahael's vessel is neither rumpled nor slight, and doesn't look as though he could ever be battered and held against his will. Even without the angelic presence, he has the strength and power of Zachariah's proverbial warrior. His face is utterly impassive, without a shadow of feeling reflected in his blank eyes.

Castiel's plea doesn't move him in the slightest. He simply jams Castiel flat and waits obediently.

And Zachariah steps up, stretches out Castiel's left arm, and claps the glowing device ruthlessly onto the back of his hand.

The incandescent end sizzles into his flesh, filling the air with a burnt-meat stench. Castiel's whole arm jerks as the pain races up his nerves to set off a detonation in his head. Sickening white bursts erupt, bowing his spine until the plaster is nearly pulverized under the back of his head.

Something in his center, inside _him_, not the vessel, contracts as a lock clicks shut around it. There's something deeply, fundamentally wrong about it, and he instinctively tries to lift free of the vessel, to escape the bands drawing tight.

He's snapped back before he even clears the skin surrounding him.

Castiel comes back to throbbing agony in his hand, pain shooting through his veins with every beat of his pulse and a throat so raw he must have been screaming. He rolls his head to the side, expecting to see nothing but charred bones at the end of his outstretched arm. The motion is weirdly delayed, as if he is not quite in control of the vessel's movements. It takes another second for his aching eyes to catch up and locate his own hand.

It is still intact, although branded with a complex circle of interwoven lines. The configuration should mean something to him, but he cannot recall what. He does know that looking at it triggers a cold clench of dread in his stomach.

Someone chuckles, and his chin is grasped by sharp fingers. His head is turned roughly and his eyes slide-slip in the effort to focus. When they do, Zachariah is before him, smirking. The blurry figure to the side is Morahael, massive arms folded, feet apart, observing impassively.

Somehow Castiel summons up a glare. "Do what you will. Dean Winchester will see through your subterfuge."

His voice is only a dry rasp, but Zachariah understands nevertheless and shakes his head. He holds up the device, a short block of gnarled wood and bone and blackened nail heads.

"Only demons are known to use binding instruments. They're crude, but they get the job done. Shall I demonstrate?" Zachariah turns and tosses the binding iron onto the table, picking up the blood-stained sword in exchange. He catches and holds Castiel's eye. "Be quiet—you're upsetting the Prophet."

And he digs the point into Castiel's stomach, just above his navel.

The pain shockwaves clear into the marrow of his bones. Zachariah delicately twists the blade and an acid heat creeps outward, venom lancing through him, and through his vessel's body. The point slices across his stomach, and then up and around in a loop as an ancient glyph is engraved into his flesh. Each intricate stroke sends another stitch of toxin into him, until the agony contorts Castiel against the wall.

Through it all, he is unable to make a single sound.

Zachariah completes the symbol with a flourish and cocks his head. Castiel's torn shirts are glued to his abdomen with streams of blood, obscuring his handiwork. Annoyed, he wraps his fist in the collars and rips both t-shirt and button-down off Castiel's back.

He tosses them aside with one hand while the sword comes back up in the other. The point circles hypnotically above Castiel. There's a gleam in Zachariah's eye that borders on fanatical.

Castiel is shaking, trying to remember to breathe, to swallow. He can feel the crawl of poison seeping through him, harsh and burning. The sword hones in on the joint of his right shoulder, the one that is already full of relentless grinding pain.

_This one is going to be bad._

He sucks in a shallow breath while his fingers flex uselessly on the flaking plaster. He finds he is able to squeeze out a few words if he keeps his voice pitched low. "Dean will not be deceived."

"We'll see about that."

The point lodges in the crease where arm meets upper chest, and another shockwave of bitter agony rocks Castiel. The acid burn slams its way to the top of his skull, where it collects and drips down, parting over the locked-down knot at his center and pooling in his belly. His head snaps back, throat working silently, as Zachariah wields the blade with the finesse of a calligrapher. He frowns slightly in concentration as he draws, and when he has finished the second profane glyph, he steps back to admire the dripping lines.

"No, I think Dean will find this very convincing."

His voice echoes strangely, fading out to a thin hiss and then swelling to clarity again. Castiel tries to give his head a shake to clear it, but he cannot move; Zachariah has willed him to stillness, and still he stays.

Jimmy is clamoring frantically in the back of his mind, his wordless shouts of terror and hurt growing more panicked by the minute. He tries to calm him, to tuck him away from the torment, but he cannot reassure him. The binding power blocks his efforts.

Castiel works coppery moisture into his mouth. "Let Jimmy Novak go," he breathes.

Zachariah cocks his head. "Who?" He regards Castiel with mild puzzlement, and then his face clears. "Oh, the _vessel_." He rolls his eyes. "Of all the things to concern yourself with!" He reaches over and grabs the sagging waistband of Castiel's too-loose jeans, and tugs sharply until the dark denim hangs below his left hip. "No," he states flatly, and brings the sword around.

The point sinks in with excruciating slowness until with a nauseating electric jolt it touches bone. Castiel goes rigid against the wall and Zachariah lifts his wrist and begins to etch yet another demonic symbol.

* * *

The rapid slowing of the car nudges Dean awake. The tires are rolling over gravel with measured crunches, and he flops his head sideways, not quite concerned yet, to see why Sam's stopping. Sunlight blinds him and he squeezes his eyes shut again with a muttered curse.

The driver's door is flung open and Sam scrambles noisily out. Dean goes from mildly annoyed why-didn't-you-wake-me-it's-way-past-dawn to holy-shit-_Sam_! in a tenth of a second flat. Blinking, he falls across the seats, craning to spot Sam, but his brother's already out and around the car. Dean throws himself back the other way and shoves his own door open.

They're at a rest stop off the side of some highway Dean doesn't remember taking. Cars and trucks and tractor trailers are rushing past with steady whooshes, but the rest stop itself is empty and fairly quiet, set back from the highway in a wooded patch. Behind a pair of mossy picnic tables is a concrete block restroom, and Sam's slamming through the door marked with a stick-figure man.

"_Shit_."

By the time Dean catches up to him, Sam's heaving violently into the bowl, bringing up everything he's eaten in the last eight months, it sounds like. Dean pushes the stall door wider and Sam lashes behind him without looking, his fist skimming Dean's chest before clanging into the metal wall.

"Lemme al—." His snarl is interrupted by another bout of retching.

Dean goes out and roots through plastic bags until he comes up with a semi-clean t-shirt. When he gets back in the restroom, Sam's on the floor, legs sprawled in crazy angles, sweaty grey face pressed to the stall. His shoulders twitch with the shuddering breaths he's taking.

Dean wets the shirt in the small steel sink and crouches beside him. "You okay?"

"S-sorry. Tried."

"I know. It's okay." He drapes the wet shirt around the back of Sam's neck. After another few minutes Sam peels his face off the stall and rolls his head so the back of it rests on the wall. His hands are jittering at blurring speeds in his lap and he drops his eyes helplessly to them.

"How bad is it, Sam?"

He manages a tiny head shake. "Been worse."

Dean crouches beside his brother and watches the tremors quaking through him. The bolts holding the stall to the floor are loose, and they rattle subtly with Sam's shaking.

The rattling goes on for a long time.

Finally it begins to taper off. When Sam clenches his hands, he's able to still the jittering. He draws in a long breath and grimaces. "Mouth tastes _foul_."

"Can you stand up? You can rinse in the sink."

He pulls in his feet, boots scraping on the rough cement, and rises in a series of ungainly lurches, Dean hoisting him by the bicep while his knees and elbows bang the metal walls. He slurps water from the sink while Dean hovers, making sure he doesn't face-plant in the basin.

"Think I'm okay now."

"Take your time."

Dean's acting like they're in no hurry at all to get across state lines. He guides Sam out of the dank restroom and instead of urging him back to the car, sits him down at one of the picnic tables. "Take your time," he tells him again.

They sit and listen to the traffic swishing past. After a minute, Sam lays his head on the sun-warmed wood. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's okay. You did pretty good for a while there."

Sam nods without opening his eyes. "Thought we'd make better time on the interstate. Concentrating on driving was helping at first… and then it wasn't anymore."

"Hallucinations? Spasms shakin' you up?"

"Nah." Slowly Sam pushes up onto his elbows and digs his fingers into his temples. "Headache. And then my stomach. And…" He sneaks a look at his brother. "Don't freak, okay?"

"_What?_"

"Just… I thought I heard voices, a couple of times. Quiet, in the back of my mind."

"Sayin' what?" Dean's making a major effort to _not_ freak, to not sound anything but dryly clinical.

"Just whispers. They went away when I tried to listen, came back when I stopped paying attention. They sounded…" Sam breaks off and looks down, picking at a splintery bit on the picnic table.

"You want to turn around?" Dean's voice is deadly serious, laced with concern. "We'll go to Bobby's, get you to his safe room to wait this out. If we turn around right now, we can be there by tomorrow."

"What about Castiel?"

There isn't a trace of conflict in Dean's expression as he looks at his little brother. "I'll track him down later, after I get you settled at Bobby's, make sure you're gonna be okay."

"No." Sam stands, only wobbling a little as he extracts his legs from the bench. "No, we're not leaving him with that son of a bitch. Come on—let's get going."

"You sure? Sam, you'd be better off locked in that room so you don't get hurt."

He shakes his head. "If it's going to hurt me, it'll find a way to do it no matter where I am. I'll tell you if it starts getting bad."

"You swear?"

"Yeah, I do." He pauses. "Can you drive for a while?"

"Damn right I'm driving." Dean slides behind the wheel and waits for Sam to fold himself into the passenger seat. He still looks way too pale and shaky.

Once they're back on the road, the rising sun streams full into his face, and Sam peels the t-shirt from behind his neck and drops it over his face. "Music?" he asks, voice muffled by wet cotton.

"It won't bother you?"

"Nuh-uh." Sam works the seat until he's half-reclining and can curl over on his side. "Need something besides whispering in my head," he says, low.

"Okay." Dean skates past a dozen or so faint stations until he finds a clear one. Twangy guitars exuberantly fill the car, and Dean groans. "Is this all we can pick up? Shit, you don't want this, do you?"

Sam lifts an edge of the shirt away from one eye. "Normally I'd say Hell, yeah, just to watch you squirm. But my head _really_ hurts."

"You're a pill, you know that?" Dean pretends to whine, and he catches Sam's weak smile from the corner of his eye before Sam drags the shirt over his face again. He twirls the radio dial until at last he finds a classic rock station out of Chicago that only fades out a little every few minutes. A low buzz of static runs beneath the music, but for some reason it doesn't bother him.

"This one okay?"

"Mm." Sam folds his arms tightly over his stomach.

"_You_ okay?"

"Kinda. Stomach aches."

"Tell me if I gotta stop."

"'K. Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You have any idea how you're going to fight off Zachariah and get Castiel away from him?"

Dean stares down the rolling highway into the distance. "I'm workin' on it," he answers finally.

* * *

Which is worse, Chuck wants to know—watching an angel who quite frankly scares the ever-lovin' _crap_ out of him slice one of his brothers to ribbons right in front of his eyes, or closing his eyes and getting a replay of that hellish slide show of people being tormented in horrific ways?

A wet cough pulls him out of the blood-soaked images flashing relentlessly on the inside of his eyelids. Reality isn't any better—Castiel is streaming blood from symbols incised over virtually every joint on his vessel's body; streaks smear the wall he's pinned against and ring the floor at his feet.

Somehow he's gotten his chin up off his chest and he looks Zachariah straight in the eye.

"Dean… will not… be deceived," he whispers with utmost conviction.

Chuck cringes, and sure enough, the defiant words set Zachariah right off again. Fury blasts off him in a dark wave, and he hauls off and clobbers Castiel right across the face. The heavy blow knocks his head aside and speckles Chuck's wall with yet another constellation of red.

Poor stubborn guy just won't take a hint and shut up.

There's an almost inaudible rustle behind the angel. Chuck winces as more of those dark plumes scatter across the littered floor. Zachariah rounds on Castiel with a face full of wrath, one feather crushing into the blood-splattered debris beneath his foot as he moves close. He reaches behind Castiel and seizes something high on his back in an iron fist. Castiel goes rigid, throat working silently.

"Why do you have such faith in that wretch?" Zachariah hisses.

Castiel rolls his eyes to meet Zachariah's. "Why do you not?" he breathes.

The air crackles with tension. Static begins to snap around Zachariah as he leans in, lips thinning to hard bloodless lines. Chuck scrunches lower in the couch as the angel's hand clenches tighter and begins a slow, deliberate twist. Castiel's eyes go wide and blank and Chuck's stomach lurches so hard bile burns the back of his throat.

Just as he thinks he's about to become witness to the utter desecration of an angel's wings being ripped clear off his back, the air shifts. Morahael steps into the room with a loud thud of bootheels.

He likes those boots, Chuck figures; he keeps thumping proudly when he stomps about, and he vaguely remembers the way the angel clattered unnecessarily across the entire downstairs to take off when Zachariah had sent him off earlier.

If he ever gets the visions back, he's going to write Morahael losing those boots in a really embarrassing sequence of events and then replacing them with plaid fleece bedroom slippers.

Zachariah's fist relaxes and he swings sharply around. "What is it, Morahael?"

"Sir, there's no sign of the demon _or_ the Winchesters."

The air crackles again. The hair on Chuck's body rises as an electric charge builds dangerously, teetering on the brink of discharging into the nearest vulnerable object—probably him.

And then Zachariah squares his shoulders and the ominous charge subsides. "Inconvenient," he snaps. "But Dean is needed." He tips his head to the ceiling for a moment, gaze distant as he weighs his options. Finally he shrugs. "If you want something done right…" he sighs.

And so quickly that Chuck's eyes can't track him, Zachariah whirls and drives the golden sword straight into Castiel's body, spearing him through the right shoulder to the wall.

Chuck screams—he can't help it. He thought the torture was the stuff of nightmares; now he's got an _angel of the Lord_ impaled on his living room wall.

Castiel has gone paralytic with shock; his mouth moves once and then his eyes glaze over and his body sags, the weight of him hanging off that golden blade protruding obscenely from beneath his collarbone.

"You wait right there," Zachariah says with dark humor and a taunting shake of his finger. He whips around to Chuck. "Don't touch him."

And then he and Morahael vanish.

For a long time, maybe even hours, Chuck huddles on his couch, eyes clamped shut, hands jammed tight to his ears. Zachariah doesn't return and as far as he can tell, Castiel doesn't move.

Maybe he's dead.

He wonders if his house is still sealed. If it's not and the cops pay another visit… well, shit, he's _so_ screwed. He's got a maybe-dead guy _skewered to his wall with a sword._

"Chuck."

The muted whisper somehow slips past his hands blocking his ears. Chuck moans and burrows his head between hunched shoulders.

He doesn't want to watch an angel die.

"_Chuck_."

He squirms unhappily, but the nearly soundless plea is in his head now, ghosting around and refusing to be ignored. Chuck cracks one eye open and risks a glance across the room.

Castiel runs a dry tongue over even drier lips. "Before he returns…" he rasps, and cuts his gaze pointedly to his branded left hand, splayed out flat and frozen on the spattered plaster.

"Oh, no! No, no, no!" Chuck scooches to the other corner of the couch, shaking his head violently. "He'll pull my intestines out through my nose if I touch you!"

A strange light kindles in the depths of Castiel's eyes. Chuck freezes and stares in horrified fascination.

"Just the binding… fire, water, iron of the earth… those will break it… _please_."

"NO!" Chuck launches off the couch, away from that imploring voice and disturbing glow seeping out of the angel's eyes. "He'll _kill_ me... and bring me back... and kill me again!" He stumbles into the kitchen. "I'm sorry, really I am. But I don't wanna die any of those ways he showed me."

He ransacks his cupboards, flinging aside all the packages he so painstakingly salvaged earlier. What a stupid waste of effort—the world is ending and he was putting his house to rights!

It had kept reality at bay for a few hours, at least.

He finds it under the sink, buried behind a burst cylinder of prehistoric Comet cleanser and an unopened sleeve of mouse traps—a bottle of sherry presented to him one Christmas eons ago by an overly friendly neighbor, back before they all discovered Chuck isn't really the sociable type.

The stuff's foul, not much better than the drain cleaner it's been rubbing shoulders with, but it has an alcoholic content and the heavy glass is unbroken.

He backs out of the cabinet, clutching the dusty bottle to his chest. Coffee, yeah, he needs coffee, that'll make the sherry palatable. Nice hot cup of spiked coffee to settle his jangling nerves. Resolutely ignoring the fact that there's a rapidly weakening angel at his back, Chuck digs out a saucepan, runs water into it, and sets it on the stove to heat.

He stands at the sink while he waits for the water to boil, staring out the window at the inaccessible street. The scenery hasn't changed since this began—the light's still stuck on late afternoon, cars haven't returned to driveways from 9 to 5 jobs, kids aren't dashing around lawns. He's just looking at a screensaver, and an ugly one at that.

He wonders, despite himself, what's really happening out there.

Where Lucifer is. How many demons are dancing in the streets. What the angels are doing about it.

Besides trying to bring in Dean Winchester, that is.

Dean.

Chuck shifts uncomfortably. The saucepan is steaming, bubbles just starting to rise around the edges, so he turns and roots through the mound of packages until he unearths a coffee can.

It's going to get nasty if Zachariah does manage to round up Dean.

He can't stop himself from throwing a helpless glance back at Castiel, and is immediately sorry he did. The angel's slumped over again, hanging limp and defeated from that sword piercing him. Tremors shiver down his bloodied body in constant waves.

Zachariah is _not_ the kind of creature you cross, not and live to tell about it.

But Chuck's been writing Dean Winchester for years now—he knows what makes the guy tick. As much as any outsider can, he's gotten a glimpse of what's in Dean's head, in his heart.

And he doesn't want to be on the same _continent_ as Dean Winchester when he finds out what was done to his angel.

Chuck Shurley picks up the pan of vigorously boiling water.

Castiel drags his head up as Chuck crosses rapidly to him. The eerie light seeping around his eyes drains away, the resigned expression replaced by sudden fierceness. Chuck hefts the saucepan. "You sure about this?"

When Castiel jerks a tiny nod, Chuck flings the bubbling contents over his left hand.

A sickly greenish light explodes outward with a deafening crack that batters Chuck's eardrums. He drops the empty pan and dives for the floor. When he dares look up, Castiel has pulled his blistered hand free of the wall and wrapped it tightly around the hilt protruding from his shoulder. His face contorts and his arm tenses as he rocks the blade, inching it bit by bit out of his vessel and the wall behind him in excruciating increments.

The scrape of metal on lath and bone grates in Chuck's molars and sends a violent shudder down his spine. Castiel pauses and gasps and then swallows hard and drags at the hilt again as Chuck clamps his hands over his ears once more.

The floor shakes when Castiel crashes down onto it. He lies sprawled face-down for long moments, the sword still clutched in an outflung hand marked by a now-distorted glyph. Motion shimmers at his back. Plumes drift down on either side of his body, darkened and tattered, and Chuck watches with sorrow as they wink out in the rubble.

Finally he rolls to his knees, the sword point biting into the floor as he pushes upright with it, right arm cradled tightly to his stomach. Pain has washed away all the impassiveness in his expression, and Chuck scrambles up and instinctively offers a hand to him. Castiel turns and Chuck shrinks back from the barely-checked ferocity in his eyes.

Castiel rises, swaying, and takes a halting step. When he has located the door, he weaves over to it and grasps the doorknob. He braces and pulls back on it while at the same time pushing forward with his upper body. The air flexes; then there's a soft 'pop' of a seal breaching. Chuck's house seems to exhale, and then the door is open and Castiel is through it. He stumbles down the porch steps, knocking against the railing as he goes.

Night has fallen during the nightmarish hours the house was in lock-down. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and throws a disoriented glance around the quiet street.

And then Castiel disappears into the darkness with a last glimmer of golden blade.


	4. Get me to a better place

See part 1 for disclaimer and notes.

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 4**

* * *

"_Stop the car_."

Sam jolts out of a restless doze with a sharp cry, arms flying. Dean hears knuckles hit glass and padded metal as he cuts the wheel to the right. Sam groans, back arching, as the Nova rocks to a halt.

"Sam?"

Dean grabs his nearer arm and Sam yells, screams, really, head bent back at a painful angle on the reclining seat. His body seizes, and looks, Dean thinks in panic, like the possessed when black smoke pours through their throats.

"Sam!"

The scream cuts off and his eyes roll back as convulsions grab him and drum his feet on the floorboards. Dark capillaries spiderweb down his forehead and jaw. When Dean drops his arm in horror, Sam slams sideways into the door, so hard the whole car shakes. For a moment he's plastered to the door panel, straining as if he's trying to force his way through the spaces between the molecules, and then he's slamming back the opposite way.

Dean just barely catches him before he smashes onto the dashboard, gets both arms around his brother and hangs on while Sam throws them both violently around the front seat.

Dean's wrist cracks against the door handle, and he twists his hand around, gets his fingers underneath and yanks. The door pops open and they both spill out onto dusty grass. He rolls Sam beneath him and pins him to the ground while Sam bucks and shakes in the throes of the terrible spasms.

Headlights wash over and past them. They're on a lonely stretch of highway, but it's not completely deserted; Dean can only hope twilight hides them from the passing cars. He braces a forearm on Sam's collarbones to try and keep his head from smashing up and down on the ground.

"Sam! Sam, c'mon!"

He's not hearing him. Dean's just going to have to wait it out. He hooks his ankles over Sam's jerking legs and tries to keep him still without hurting him. Headlights sweep them again, this time from behind the Nova, and a horn blares. It occurs to Dean that he didn't flick on the hazard lights before he bailed, but he really doesn't give a shit at the moment. Sam clenches up into knotted, vibrating muscle, triggered maybe by the blast of noise and light, and Dean has all he can do to hold him down.

Another car passes, this one slowing as if the driver has caught a glimpse of the two of them struggling beneath the open door. Dean hears the engine slack off, and Sam's face bleeds red in reflected tail lights. "Just keep the fuck going," Dean grits out. Stolen car, detoxing passenger—he doesn't need a Good Samaritan now.

The tail lights recede, but Dean's not breathing any easier. Driver's probably already on his cell, reporting them to emergency services. "Sam. Hey, come on. Come back, Sam." He doesn't dare let go to pat his face and he doesn't think Sam can hear him yet anyway.

Finally the tense lines in his face loosen. Sam groans, sounding like he's gargling on saliva, and Dean eases up the pressure on his chest. He rolls him up on his side, and his arms and legs flop limply before settling on the grass.

The convulsions have almost stopped.

"Sam. I know you feel like shit, but you gotta get up."

He groans again, and Dean hears him spit.

"Come on, dude. We're about to have company."

Sam rolls half onto his back. "I bit my tongue."

"We passed an exit a few miles back; I'll pull off and get you some ice." Dean hardens his voice. "Get up, Sam. I don't want to be here when the cops swing by."

He hauls him to his feet and stuffs him back into the car. Dean sneaks a look at him under the dome light—the dark veins webbing his face have vanished, leaving only pale, sweaty skin. He pushes the door closed and Sam slumps on it, eyes closed and twitching a little beneath the lids.

The car bumps over the grassy median as Dean pulls a U-turn, and Sam moans. "Not so fast!"

"You gonna puke?"

"Don' think so…"

"Then suck it up while I get us out of here."

He backtracks to the nearest town, a cluster of houses around a single stoplight, a feed store, and a couple of churches. On the outskirts is a tiny market, just about to close for the night. Dean flirts, a little desperately, with the lone check-out girl, and over her blushing she holds the store open so he can buy ice and soda and a half-price box of cinnamon donuts.

His wallet's getting pretty thin.

Sam's lolling weakly in the passenger seat when he comes out. Dean tears open the bag of ice and digs out a thick frosty cube for his brother. "Put that on your tongue," he tells him, and twists open a soda bottle. "And take a couple sips of this."

"Dean…"

"It's ginger ale, Sam. It's good for upset stomachs."

Sam alternates sips of soda with clicking the ice against his teeth. The lights in the market switch off, and Dean can see the check-out girl peering anxiously out the plate glass window at them. He sighs. "I better get us out of here before she calls the cops."

* * *

When they hit the county line, Dean loops back out to the interstate. He fills the tank at the first gas station he sees, relieved when his credit card isn't declined, and lets Sam talk him into relinquishing the wheel.

He feels better, he insists. It'll keep his mind busy.

Two hours later Dean's off the road in a closed weigh station, sitting braced against the side of the Nova with Sam's back pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around his brother while Sam screams through a knotted t-shirt, wracked with the worst muscle cramps outside of Hell.

Four hours after that, after another pitstop when Sam starts a disjointed conversation with someone Dean eventually figures out is Sarah Blake, a conversation that degenerates into a massive panic attack, they hit the Ohio state line.

Sam's fitfully asleep as Dean cruises slowly up and down the streets of a town on the border, checking out vehicles. They need a new car; they've been using the Nova too long for comfort. A packaging factory on night shift offers a parking lot full of possible replacements.

In the back row next to a sagging chain link fence, Dean rolls to a stop. When he shifts quietly into park, Sam startles awake. "What—?"

"Shh. Picking out a new car."

"Oh." Sam rubs his face, rolls his neck until it cracks. "Which one?"

"That Chevelle, I think."

It's old—not classic like his Baby, not restored vintage like the Nova, just old. Faded blue paint, rust spots, a missing hubcap. Nothing to attract attention, and it reminds him of cars from Bobby's lot.

He has the door open in one minute, the engine hot-wired in five after that. The exhaust's a little loud, but otherwise it sounds good. He gets out and pops the trunk. There's a small tool kit, a spare gas can, and some old grease-stained t-shirts jumbled up with the jack and a spare tire. Dean finds a screwdriver in the tool box and goes to tap a knuckle on Sam's window.

"Pull everything out of the Nova while I swap plates around, wouldya?"

He trades license plates with a car a few rows over, and when he comes back, Sam's stuffing trash into a spare bag. Dean stops him as he's about to dump out the melted ice water.

"Leave that—I need it."

He fishes his rosary out of his pocket, and when the ice-melt in the plastic bag is blessed, he flips open his cell and scrolls through pictures until he comes to a recent one. "Here, hold this for me," Dean says, handing the water to Sam.

He dips in his fingers, and using the picture of the back of the motel door as a guide, paints Castiel's sigil onto the Chevelle's weathered roof.

"You think that'll work?" Sam asks skeptically.

Dean sighs. "Maybe? I'm gonna pretend it will, anyway."

Only one thing left to do; Dean wipes down the interior of the Nova with one of the old shirts, making sure to get everywhere prints may have collected. His hand lingers on the hood after he closes the driver's door for the last time—the clawed-up paint is no longer smooth and glossy, and there are fresh dents up and down the body.

"Sorry, girl. Guess you weren't in as good hands with me as I promised." He smoothes his palm over a particularly deep gouge over the left headlight. "Think of 'em as battle scars, okay? You put up a real good fight for us."

"Dean, if you're done talking to the car, we should get out of here before the shift ends."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean swipes the t-shirt over the places he just touched, tosses it in the new car's backseat, and climbs in. The exhaust _is_ kinda loud—jackass owner should get that fixed.

He rolls cautiously out of the factory lot and points the car toward Chuck's town.

* * *

Dean doesn't really know what to expect. The last time Castiel tried to fight off his kin, it left a warehouse a twisted, sparking ruin.

The town's still there, though. It's quiet in the grey early dawn, streetlights just starting to wink out, a few joggers and dogwalkers traveling the sidewalks. Dean drives slowly past the end of Chuck's block and doesn't see any gaping holes in the roofline or angelic light blinding everyone in a square-mile radius.

"Cops," Sam says quietly. "Fly casual."

"Always do, dude," Dean mutters out of the side of his mouth, making sure he passes the unmarked car exactly at the speed limit. The suits inside are too busy slurping from plastic-capped cups to pay him any mind. He drives another half-dozen blocks just in case, before swinging around to work his way back to Chuck's house.

They park the next block over and cut through the yard backing up to Chuck's. Dean doesn't have any concrete plan; how exactly do you take on a vengeful angel, anyway?

He'll have to make it up as he goes.

The house is dark and quiet. Every window is blown out, although the houses to either side look undamaged. Sam nudges Dean and points—torn yellow caution tape is fluttering in the bushes out front, just visible around the corner of the house. "_Something_ happened here," Dean says. Glass crunches under his boots when he climbs the back steps.

He pulls open the empty storm door and shifts the crowbar he's clutching to his shoulder, poised to swing. "You hear anything?" he whispers, and Sam shakes his head.

The house is a wreck inside. Furniture's overturned, clutter lies in heaps below tilted shelves. There are shards of glass and plastic blown everywhere. Dean eases cautiously through the dim rooms, Sam nearly treading on his bootheels.

The kitchen is marginally neater. The window blinds are tangled on the counter and cupboard doors swing wide, revealing emptied shelves, but it looks as if someone made an attempt to sweep up. Dean checks behind a narrow door – it's a broom closet – and then frowns as something on the fridge catches his eye. He touches his fingers to the metal door handle and finds it tacky with reddish-brown patches.

"Okay… Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't freak, okay?" Sam says carefully.

Dean turns. Sam's facing out toward the living room, and when Dean moves beside him, catches hold of Dean's arm and squeezes.

"_Jesus fucking christ._"

"Take it easy, Dean."

He's not listening. He knocks Sam's hand off with a hard shake and is across the room in three long strides, chest filling with a burning mixture of horror and something that might be fear, if he's honest about it.

The back wall's splattered with streaks and droplets of red, crosshatched like someone flung brushfuls of it across the expanse. They cover the wall in a sick abstract all the way to the cracked ceiling… except for a roughly human-sized blank space in the center.

"Fucking hell." Dean stretches out a shaking hand, fingers running disbelievingly over a deep angular gash in the plaster. The edges crumble away, soaked with red. He raises blank eyes to his brother. "Was this… was Cas…?"

"We don't know what happened yet, Dean." Sam's trying for soothing, but his heart's racing so fast his voice comes out more pinched than reassuring. "It looks like Zachariah's not here, at least. Let's try and find Chuck."

Dean stands for a second, shoulders sagging, staring at the nightmarish wall. Sam lays a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he explodes.

He wrenches free and windmills the crowbar up and around. Sam jumps out of range as the hooked end bites deep into the wall. Dean rips the tool free, tearing loose a huge chunk of wall, and slams it down again.

"Dean! Dean, stop! We gotta… _Dean_. Stop, okay?"

He tears out another ragged chunk and swings back into another wind-up, but instead of smashing it down again, he lets the crowbar droop and he pitches forward onto the wall, head burying on his other arm.

Sam gently twists the crowbar out of his dangling hand. "Come on. Let's find Chuck. And then we'll find Castiel."

Dean lifts burning eyes. "Will we?"

And Sam doesn't have a ready answer.

Dean pushes past him, reclaiming his crowbar as he goes, and heads upstairs. He no longer bothers with caution, just charges up the staircase like he's hoping to meet resistance. Sam has to scramble to keep up.

The hallway at the top is narrow and dark; a bulb-less lamp hangs from the shadowy ceiling, thin glass shards scattered across the floor. Four doors open off the corridor and Dean rips open the nearest—it's a closet, the shelves half-full of dingy linens and blankets. The next is a bathroom, floor covered with broken mirror and chunks of shattered white porcelain.

Dean points at the door to the right along the hall as he heads toward the last door on the left. "You check there, I'll take this one."

He flings open the door to a bedroom that's surprisingly sparse, considering the clutter downstairs. The ceiling's fallen in, and the mattress has been dragged off the double bed and propped across the closet door where the frame offers a small measure of protection.

The door bounces off the wall and a bearded face pops up behind the mattress and starts screaming. "I didn't touch him! I swear I didn't! I did what you said and didn't touch him!"

Dean lowers the crowbar. "Where's Cas, dammit?"

Chuck blinks and his bleary eyes come into focus. "Dean?"

"Get outta there and talk to me. Was he here?"

Chuck crawls out of his makeshift fort, arm curled protectively around a thick brown bottle. "I thought you were Zachariah."

"Do I look like that dick? Did he have Cas? What happened to him?"

Chuck sways until he topples over backwards onto the bent mattress, arms flying up to keep the contents of his bottle from jolting out. "He's… he was… Don't hit me, okay?"

Dean circles the bed and crouches down. "I'm not gonna hit you," he says in measured tones. "Just tell me. Zachariah was here? And he had Cas?"

Chuck nods, fumbling his bottle to his lips. His eyes are damp and red and there's a strong odor of too-sweet booze clinging to him. "Dragged him in from, dunno—somewhere. He tried to fight. But Zachariah… there was all this wind. And the blood… oh, god, so much blood!" He takes another slug from the bottle and then hides his face in his crooked elbow.

Sam appears in the doorway behind them, and when Dean glances up, shakes his head and mouths, 'Nothing'. The seething heat in Dean's belly chills down to ice. "I saw the blood. Where's Cas now?"

Chuck shakes his head without lifting it. "Don't know. He took off."

"Took off flying?"

"No way." Chuck wraps his other arm over his head. "Zachariah, he… oh, shit. There were feathers everywhere," he moans, sending Dean's stomach plummeting.

"Chuck, tell me what happened right. The fuck. Now."

Beneath his sheltering arms, he's still shaking his head. "He ran. Zachariah left to look for you and he got free and just went. That was… yesterday? Blood all over, so sliced up I don't know how he was still standing."

"Zachariah sliced him?"

"Yeah, to _pieces_. Put him against the wall and carved into him with the sword. He hit him, too, and tore…" Chuck makes a gripping, twisting motion with one hand, without looking up. "He screamed."

And everything inside Dean sucks down into the black hole in his center. "Tell me you have some idea which way he went."

The remoteness of Dean's voice snaps Chuck's head up finally, his eyes wide and wary. "He… he ran down the street. Went left, not right. Cut between the Lalor's and the Mercer's houses and then I couldn't see him anymore."

"Did the cops spot him?" Sam asks from the bedroom door, and Chuck drags his transfixed gaze off Dean and shakes his head.

"If they had, they'd've chased after him. They think I was running a meth lab out of my kitchen and blew it up the other night. They've been watching ever since."

"Not watching too close if a bleeding guy can run out your front door without being seen."

"It was dark. He was moving pretty fast for as messed up as he was." When Dean's eyes go even colder, Chuck flinches and fumbles for his bottle.

"But he was alive when he got out." Dean rises abruptly and wheels around the bed, motioning Sam out ahead of him. "I'll find him."

He clatters downstairs, urging Sam through the house and out the back door again. "Come on, Sam, move it."

"Dean, where are we even going to start looking? He could be anywhere."

Dean yanks the car door open and tosses the crowbar into the back seat. "Hurry up."

"Seriously, _where_?"

"He's on foot," Dean says, sliding into the driver's seat and reaching for the wires dangling around his knees. "Hurt, bad, it sounded like." The engine catches, and he revs it once, pulling the door closed impatiently.

"Okay, so, what? We drive in circles and hope we spot him?"

Dean's hands are clamped tight on the top of the steering wheel. He leans forward and rests his chin on his white knuckles and closes his eyes. "After he tangled with the archangel, Cas mentioned 'sanctuary' a couple of times, like a place he could go to heal. What's sanctuary usually, Sam?"

His brother's face clears. "A church."

"Yup." Dean throws the car into gear and pulls away from the curb. "We need a list of every church in town."

Sam leans over the seat to retrieve the laptop. "I'll start searching."

People worship a damn lot of ways, Dean thinks later. The Catholic and Episcopal churches are easy to find, and both are open, allowing him easy access. Once he's checked the public areas, he works his way shamelessly through basements, storage rooms, and bell towers, dodging suspicious priests. The rest of the churches are locked up, in between services, so Dean starts breaking in. He picks locks at the Methodist and Baptist churches, and bashes in a small pane of glass to flip a deadbolt on the side door of the Faith Fellowship Bible Church. Sam watches his back, ready to run interference if need be, and once inside splits off from his brother to double the coverage.

The Presbyterian minister catches them about to kick in a basement window. "I'm looking for someone in trouble," Dean tells him bluntly. "I think he's tryin' to hide in a church and I need to get in and look."

"Please," Sam adds, and thank god for soulful baby brother eyes, because the minister studies Sam's earnest expression and the desperation radiating off Dean and then leads them around the building to unlock the door.

Castiel isn't in that one, either.

It's evening by the time they cover the last few churches in and around town—a synagogue and a storefront chapel in a rough part of downtown. There's no sign of a wounded, wandering angel in any of them.

Dean's starting to unravel.

He sags on the side of the car outside another independent bible church, where they'd simply followed inside a stream of people reporting for choir practice. There's a permanent crease between his eyes and his hands shake a little when he forgets to clench them. "I was sure he'd go for a church," he says in a low, defeated voice.

"It was a good idea, Dean."

He tips his head back to the darkening sky. "Where _is_ he?"

"Hiding pretty deep, I guess." Sam eyes his brother. "We need a new plan," he says carefully, and when Dean doesn't react beyond a weary nod, continues, "and I think we should get a room while we work it out."

"Okay. Sure." Dean pushes off the fender, slowly, like his joints ache. "Saw a place a couple of blocks from here."

The room's done up all in shades of blue, from the linoleum to the linens to the paint. Dean doesn't find it either soothing or depressing, just notices that it's cleaner than the last place and is grateful for small favors. He drops onto the bed by the door and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Chuck's words won't stop looping through his mind. _"…feathers everywhere... carved into him with the sword… He screamed."_

"You think he's dead, Sammy?"

Sam swings the door shut and sets his crowbar on top of the TV, flexing his cramped fingers. "No," he says firmly, and Dean could hug his brother for being so positive. "He's hiding. We just have to think where. But first, I'm going next door and getting us something to eat. There's a sign that says laundry room, so if the machines are working, I'll throw in a load of wash. We're gonna eat, shower, and rest—and then we're going to figure out where an angel would go to ground."

Dean cracks an eyelid at the authoritative tone. "You okay to do all that?"

"Yeah. I'm a little shaky, but I'm doing better." He tosses a bag so it lands beside Dean's head. "Last pair of clean shorts are in there. Strip and give me your clothes."

Dean rolls his eyes in resignation. "You're bossy."

"And you're slightly less likely to sneak off while I'm out if you're nearly naked. Drop 'em, Dean."

Later, hours later, after Sam brings back a sandwich and chips for him and a bagel he only picks at for himself, after he comes back again with an armful of warm, clean clothes, after Dean skims the news channels and Sam checks occult websites for new activity, Dean lies in bed and watches blocks of light from passing headlights slide across the dark ceiling. He's bone-tired, but too wired to sleep.

Cas is out there somewhere. Torn to pieces all over again.

What the hell is it with angels going after their own brothers like that?

And Dean got him into this, with his 'please help me stop Sam' and 'worth dying for'.

He'll get him out of it. He will.

If he can only figure out where to look.

His mind is still poking at it when his exhausted body finally gives up and drops him into sleep.

Dean floats back to consciousness with relief already spreading warmly through the ache in his gut. "We forgot to check _abandoned_ churches," he says out loud to the dark room.

Sam's sheets rustle as he rolls over, still wide awake despite the late hour. "Shit, you're right. Why didn't we think of that before? He wouldn't want to hide out in an active church with people in and out."

"But it would still be hallowed ground." Dean flings back his blanket. "I'm gonna start checking online."

There's no centralized database for closed-down churches in Ohio, it turns out. By dawn, all Dean's found is one story about a man who bought a long-empty church on Third Street and renovated it into a grand, albeit odd, private home, and another about a local D.A.R. chapter cleaning up a graveyard at an abandoned churchyard halfway to the next town. He scrawls down the location of the graveyard just in case and sits back, arms folded, frowning at the screen.

And Sam's puking again.

Eventually the shower and sink faucets are shut off, not that the rushing water was covering the distressed noises from the bathroom anyway. Sam comes out and leans heavily in the doorway. "Any luck?"

"Not really."

"So we check the library. They might have local history that isn't online."

"Okay." Dean closes the laptop and rises, stretching, and then fixes Sam with a stern glare. "I heard you. How're you doing?"

Sam rolls around the doorframe on one shoulder and reaches for a clean shirt, steadfastly avoiding Dean's gaze. "Not great. But I can keep going."

"Then pack up and let's _go_. Time's a-wasting."

* * *

The librarian reacts to Sam's cover story of working on a photo essay on abandoned churches of the Midwest with mild interest, searching out a handful of booklets and an old city directory printed by the local historical society. Sam settles at a public computer with Dean hanging over his shoulder, and starts cross-tracking locations with Google Maps.

"I've got that one already," Dean says, jabbing a finger at the screen. "That's the one with the graveyard clean-up."

Sam swats his hand away. "Leave it. I want directions."

He's moving too damn slowly. Dean has to go pace the stacks to keep from shaking Sam until his head rattles. He's doing his best, he's just… methodical. Dean doesn't want methodical, he wants fast, dirty results, he wants to be able to roar out to a boarded-up church and smash down a door and pull Cas out.

He wants to_ find_ him already, damn it.

The librarian is approaching Sam again, and Dean hurries back over. She's holding a large, thin book, and when she reaches Sam, she spreads it open on the carrel beside him. A faintly musty odor reminiscent of Bobby's house rises from the lightly foxed pages.

"I forgot about this one," she says apologetically. "Though to be honest, I don't know if you'll want to visit it."

A black and white photo shows a small clapboard church, the white-painted siding bright on a long-ago sunny day. A couple dressed in somber clothing and a stair-step line of children squint in front of polished double doors.

"What's wrong with this one?" Sam asks.

"Kids kept breaking in, and then there was a fire a few years back. The fire department found evidence of devil worship inside." She makes a face. "There was some fairly creepy graffiti on the walls, and there's still reports of lights and chanting out there sometimes late at night. It's pretty isolated and people mostly leave it alone. You probably don't want to go out there."

"Probably not," Sam agrees, and Dean knows what he's thinking—that a wounded angel wouldn't seek sanctuary in a defiled church.

"Where is it?" he blurts, and when Sam and the librarian look up at him in surprise, he offers a weak grin. "You never know, it might be worth a look."

Half an hour later, they're prying peeling plywood off the back window of a brick building that looks more like a schoolhouse than the church it's supposed to have been. The board cracks about halfway up the window, and together they fan it up and down until the wood splits raggedly, enough that they can fold it up and hoist themselves through the window.

Barely any light filters around the blocked windows. The floor sags alarmingly with every step, soft with dry rot. "We should've picked up flashlights," Sam mutters.

It doesn't take long to search, even with the lack of light. Interior walls have collapsed, leaving one big rubble-strewn space, open to the roof slates high above. Dean locates a door near where they climbed in, and he and Sam pitch aside chunks of plaster and boards and mortar until there's enough room to force the door open.

Dank, musty air spills out of the pitch-black opening. "Don't go down there without a light!" Sam exclaims, catching Dean's arm.

He digs a lighter out of his pocket, and brushes Sam's hand off. "Yeah, like I'll just leave without checking."

The whole staircase sways under his weight. Dean holds the light in one hand, the wall with the other, and inches down treads gone mushy with moisture. Water's trickling somewhere and his boots sink into a thin layer of silty mud when he reaches bottom. He raises the lighter and the brick walls glisten in the flickering light.

"Cas? Cas, it's me, Dean. You down here?"

The close, damp walls muffle his voice, but there's nowhere for anyone to hide. It takes only a moment to pick his way around the cellar.

"He's not here."

"Then get out of there before you break your neck."

Back outside, Dean scrapes his boots clean on the curb. "What's next on the list?"

"That old graveyard west of here. According to the historical society survey, there's nothing left of the church except foundations, but there may be a cellar he could lay low in."

Dean tips his head back to the sky for a moment. "The devil-worship church is closer."

"It's also been used for _devil worship_. I think it's a last resort, Dean."

It should be the last resort—logically, he knows this. But… "I checked the map; as the crow flies, it's pretty close to Chuck's street."

Sam tosses up his hands. "Fine, we'll go there next! It's a waste of time, though."

"Maybe," Dean mumbles as he slides back into the car. Still, something's nagging at him and won't let him be.

He snatches the directions out of Sam's hand and flattens them onto the dash above the steering wheel.

* * *

The church, when he finally locates it at the ass end of a dirt back lane, doesn't look like a hotbed of dark arts. The siding has weathered to a chalky grey, and the tall windows have boards nailed securely across them, but there aren't any pentagrams or the like spray-painted on the building. Dean pulls up next to an ornate iron fence that's slowly being swallowed by the trunks of trees growing up alongside it and wonders if this too is going to be a bust. When he tugs apart the ignition wires, it's so quiet he can hear the crows in the overgrown fields surrounding them.

Sam shoves his door open. "Come on," he says impatiently. "Let's get this over with."

As they wade through the long grass in the churchyard, Sam taps Dean's arm and points. Above the padlocked double doors is a plain wooden cross, nailed upside down.

"Don't get your hopes up—he's probably not here. The librarian was right, this place has been desecrated."

Dean fits the end of his crowbar under the lock's hasp. "I'm checking anyway," he says stubbornly.

The screws pull free of the wood with a loud screech. Dean touches the knife in his belt and shoves the door wide.

It opens to a narrow vestibule, littered with pages torn from hymnals and two halves of a broken signboard announcing the last service, some sixty years in the past.

More torn pages are drifted across the floor of the sanctuary. The vaulted ceiling is open to the sky in the back corner, blackened joists poking through the roof slates, deep grey smudges climbing the wall where the fire had smoldered. Enough light spills through the gaps in the roof that Dean doesn't need his lighter.

Sam circles the room, stepping carefully around overturned pews and studying the walls. "Do you see these symbols? They're the real deal, not just kids goofing around."

"I see 'em," Dean says shortly. He gets a better grip on his crowbar and eases down what used to be the center aisle, bending to poke at a tangle of shattered pews. There are deep gouges in the walls that suggest someone went on a bench-tossing rampage at some point.

"Look at the altar," Sam says quietly. A communion table has been turned upside down and a rough circle cleared around it. The cloth draping the top is crusted with wax, and when Sam steps up to touch a stained metal bowl left on it, his boots crunch on a scatter of small bones. He winces. "He's not here, Dean. This place is _steeped_ in the occult."

"Which is why I thought Cas might've picked here to hide." Dean digs at a mass of wire and wood with the end of the crowbar. A few yellowed piano keys shake loose of the twisted mess and he kicks them aside. "Dark canceling out light, y'know?"

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. Don't think it panned out, though."

"I'm gonna keep looking anyway."

He works his way back around the room, looking for a door to a cellar or even a closet he may have missed. A choir loft stretches across the back wall, but the narrow staircase that led to it has been ripped free and lies buried in rubble from the crumbling wall. Dean turns to ask Sam to give him a hand in digging it out so he can prop the risers up like a ladder and check the loft, but for a second he doesn't see him.

Sam has crouched down in the far back corner, next to a heap of blackened beams and roof slates where the ceiling's caved in from the fire. As Dean starts to call him, he swivels around on his heels, and his eyes are wide with shock. "Dean, _here!_"

He's clear across the church without realizing he's moved, nearly knocking Sam over as he pushes in between him and the debris walling off the corner. Sam throws one arm out. "Careful, it's kind of unstable."

Dean barely hears him, because down behind the crumbling rafters, pressed tight to the angle where floor meets wall, is who he's been searching for. "Oh, god. _Cas_."

His face is so battered his own brothers probably wouldn't recognize him. He's lost both shoes and a sock and his legs are drawn up close to his body. His shirt's missing. Castiel is on his side with his arms wrapped tightly around his bare torso, so tightly Dean can barely see the faint rise and fall of his chest.

And the _blood_…

"What the fuck is this?" Dean hisses, panic rising at the sight of the livid markings carved everywhere on the pale skin, markings that are still seeping thin, nearly black blood, rivulets streaking down to puddle on the floor. He reaches toward the symbol sliced into Castiel's uppermost shoulder and Sam's hand shoots out to intercept his.

"Don't! Those are really _wrong_." His face scrunches. "I can smell the demon blood mixed in with his."

"Demon blood. Zachariah poisoned him with _demon blood_?"

"It's for…" Sam breaks off. Dean pins him with a deadly glare, teetering on the thin edge of seething fury and full-blown panic. Sam scrubs his hand down his face and reluctantly continues. "It's for taking someone apart. Certain sigils cut into the joints in a certain order, and when the last one's in place, the soul cracks apart with the body." He ducks his head. "Watched Ruby do it once," he mutters. "She wanted to send a warning to a rival band of demons."

"Jesus." Dean twists away from his brother. "A spell to dismember a _soul_." He reaches down over the beams and very carefully lifts Castiel's left hand from where it lies heavy and slack atop his other arm. "On top of that, _this_ is a binding spell."

Sam leans forward to peer at it. "It's warped from the burns, but yeah, I think so."

"I know so. I got a good look at the one Meg put on you." Very gently he releases the blistered hand. "We've got to get the poison out of Cas' system before it kills him."

"Are you… Are you sure it hasn't already?" Sam asks hesitantly. "This might just be Jimmy."

"It's Cas. Can't you tell?" Dean frowns as he grasps the angel's chin and starts to tip his head upward. "Cas? Hey, buddy. Can you…"

Castiel's eyes snap open, wild and unfocused. He wrenches his chin from Dean's fingers, flinging himself back in an uncoordinated scramble. Sam falls back as a rush of wind tosses one of the beams so it rolls down the heap, and then a harsh blast of sound knocks him even flatter.

Dean flies backward across the church, propelled by a gale-force punch of wind. One of the overturned pews breaks his fall, splintering beneath his back as he smashes down.

"Dean!" Sam lunges for his brother, lying dazed and winded in the broken pieces. Behind him, Castiel lurches upright. He stumbles on the burnt debris, and then tries to step-turn-_lift_; he only pitches hard into the wall before crashing down in a tangle to the floor.

"Catch him!" Dean wheezes. He's having trouble drawing breath, but when Sam reaches to help him sit up, he waves him off. "Go-- before he hurts himself worse!"

Sam turns, just as Castiel drags himself to his feet once more, bent to one side with his arm clamped tight across his bleeding stomach. He pivots, confused eyes bouncing between Sam, advancing with hands spread wide, and Dean, choking back a groan as he rolls up onto his hands and knees.

Castiel half-turns, pushing his shoulder against the air; he pitches into the wall again, a short burst of angel voice piercing the air when he hits.

Dean's suddenly beside him, clearing the collapsed beams and catching him just as he starts a lethargic slide down the wall, a smear of red trailing in his wake. They sink down to the floor, Castiel still trying to wrench away.

"Cas! Cas, it's me, Dean. Wake up. I know you're in there."

"Dean, be careful…"

"It's okay, Sam, he's coming around. Cas, hey. Easy. It's just me."

He watches recognition seep slowly back into the blank eyes. Castiel blinks, and some of the coiled-wire tension eases; he's heavy where he's sprawled across Dean's legs.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, we've got you now. Hang on, Cas. Just hang on, okay?"

And Castiel's blistered hand edges up and closes on Dean's shirt, fingers twisting tight into the fabric as he grabs hold and quite literally hangs on to Dean.


	5. Will I sail into the heavens

See part 1 for disclaimer & notes.

If you're expecting plot, you won't find it here :P Apparently, a week spent sitting on the beach and on the cottage deck with a mojito or three results in copious amounts of gratuitous h/c... and not much else.

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 5**

* * *

Seated on a shifting pile of roof slates in a ruined church in the middle of nowhere, Dean tries to figure out just where on the battered body sprawled across his legs he can safely place his hands. He needs to take inventory of the injuries, but Castiel is hanging onto his shirt like it's the only thing anchoring him; he's curled over and bloody, and Dean can't see where to even _start_.

He moves his hand to Castiel's upper arm, between the sigils carved above, on the joint of his shoulder, and below, around his elbow. As soon as his palm makes contact, Castiel's eyes fly open, blank with stunning hurt, and his mouth moves soundlessly. Dean snatches his hand back.

"Sorry, sorry. Are the cuts that bad?"

It takes him almost a full minute to answer, in a voice worn away to a hoarse rasp. "Not the sigils, no. Something is… torn." He stifles a shudder, and Dean realizes he's holding himself still by sheer will. Chuck's words tear through his mind again.

"Your wings? Zachariah tore apart your wings?"

He starts to shake his head, turns it into the beginning of a nod, and stops, confused. "That, too. But the arm stopped working before that."

"Okay. I need to check. I need to see what all is wrong, so I can start fixing it, okay?"

"It has gone too deep."

"Not yet it hasn't," Dean insists. A swell of panic threatens to swamp him, and he shoves it down and eases his hand around the back of Castiel's shoulder. His fingertips brush a knot of muscle and bone and the angel's muscles instantly snap taut.

"Okay, okay, believe it or not, this is easy—it's only dislocated. I can pop it back and it'll feel better right away." He glances worriedly at the cramped, debris-strewn space behind Castiel. "Where're your wings?"

Castiel closes his eyes. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the bowl on the altar starts to rattle, and, faintly, a silhouette traces down his back. It's twisted, and there are ragged gaps in its length. It flickers so hard it's barely visible, but Dean nods.

"Okay, I see it. The other one's still folded?"

The silhouette stutters out. Castiel sags heavily against Dean as he nods. "Ifrin only got to the one. Zachariah started on this one."

Dean stiffens. "You've been hurt that long and didn't say anything?"

"We were… busy, Dean."

His voice is fading out, so Dean pushes down the surge of irrational anger. He shifts his hand around, intending to brace Castiel so the angel can sit up, and his palm skids on something slick. When he pulls his hand back, it comes up covered in that thin, nearly black blood and Dean realizes with a jolt that he's got a much more serious problem than a dislocated shoulder to deal with.

"Where's this blood coming from?"

Castiel only looks disoriented, and yeah, he's covered in blood that's leaking out of a dozen places, so no wonder he doesn't know which exactly Dean's talking about. Dean rolls him higher on his side and leans so he can peer over Castiel's back and _holy shit_, there's a deep, oozing wound on the back of his shoulder, _really_ deep. Dean's seen enough knife wounds in his day to recognize a bad one when he sees it.

And Chuck had said 'sword' and Cas had been against the _wall_, and…

Dean rolls him the other way despite the harsh noise Castiel makes as his back lands full on Dean's legs. He tries to curl back up, but Dean pushes him flat.

There's a corresponding hole high on his chest by his collarbone.

Dean's vision goes dark around the edges and he hauls Castiel up, forgetting to be careful, and Castiel makes another of those harsh noises. Dean stares, transfixed by the deep gash.

"Cas, shit, this is… this is bad. It… it goes all the way through!"

"Zachariah wanted me to stay put while he searched for you."

"Fix it! Angel healing, do it, the hell with anyone seeing you! Just zap it healed and I'll kill anything that comes after you!"

Castiel's expression softens at Dean's words, despite his own obvious distress. "I cannot. It is not working."

Dean fumbles for the hand gripping his shirt so tightly. "Is it the binding symbol? We can break it more! Sam, c'mere, take my lighter, we need to start a fire…"

"No. The demon blood is stopping it. The binding just forced me to obey Zachariah." He's already starting to sway, and when he tugs his blistered hand back towards Dean's shirt, Dean lets him grab on again.

"How do we get it out of you?"

"I don't know." Before Castiel turns his face aside, the look in his dazed eyes is so lost it hurts to see it. "Angels have never… to my knowledge… dealt with demons before."

"That's how Zachariah came up with this shit?" Dean gets a brief, anguished nod in reply. He whips his head around. "Sam?"

"I don't know either." Sam's on the far side of the tumbled roof debris, looking freaked out and guilty. "Ruby didn't say how to cure it, just how it worked. And, um, Dean?" He sidles closer, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "There's something weird about this blood."

"Weird how?"

"The way it smells—it's off. It smells, well… disgusting."

Dean stares up at his brother in disbelief. "And normally demon blood smells _good?_"

Sam presses his lips together and looks away. "It smells strong, old and strong, okay? This just stinks like rot."

"Zachariah took the blood of an infant born as Lucifer rose," Castiel manages, his voice low and pained. "The child was possessed and killed, with that sword over there," and he tips his head toward the back wall where he had been lying. "Gave the sigils strength, I believe."

"Go look, Sam," Dean orders, and hitches Castiel back up again. The hole through his shoulder is bleeding only in sluggish trickles down his chest and back; it won't be blood loss that kills him, but the poison in the blood eating slowly through him. "The only thing I know to do is try and purify each of these symbols," Dean tells him quietly. "I can try holy water first, and if that doesn't work, we may have to go to fire." Castiel nods and looks away, but not before Dean catches a flash of fear in his eyes.

"Dean, look." Sam gingerly lifts a short sword from the rubble, gleaming gold in the muted sunlight spilling through the burned roof. The blade is stained dark red. "This is _amazing_," he whispers. "Is it an angel's sword?"

"Lucifer's," Castiel rasps. "Uriel retrieved it for him, but Zachariah claimed it." He cuts a worried glance to Dean as Sam raises the sword and draws it through the air, his expression awed as he follows it with his eyes.

"Give it here, Sam," Dean says flatly, ignoring his brother's sudden scowl. "Go to the car and get whatever first aid we have left. Bring the salt, too, clean shirts, any water that's left." He waits, staring impassively, until Sam complies, dropping the sword beside his brother before striding out of the church with his face twisted in annoyance.

"How is Sam doing?"

Dean turns back to Castiel; there's a worried crease between his brows as he watches Sam's retreat. "He's up and down. Withdrawal seems to come in waves. Better question is, how are you doing?" Beneath the bruises, his face looks drawn, and he feels heavy, too heavy really, where he's leaning on Dean.

"I am slipping," Castiel answers simply, and Dean's stomach takes a nosedive.

"You're not. Don't even _think_ that, you are not."

Castiel rolls his head back, his eyes seeking the patches of sky between the missing roof slates. "If I do…"

"No. I am not gonna listen to this."

"Dean, I would want…"

"NO. I said _no_, dammit! You are not…" Dean's eyes fall closed. He gets his hand beneath Castiel's left shoulder, practically the only unbroken place on his body that he can reach, and hitches him up again. "I am not gonna let you 'slip', you understand me?"

Castiel inclines his head; it's getting too heavy to tip back anyway. "I understand."

Sam comes back and tosses a plastic bag so it thumps down beside Dean. "You want the salt in a circle?" he asks shortly.

Dean doesn't have time for his pissy mood. "Yeah."

"There's not much left."

"Do what you can." One-handed, he digs a shirt out of the bag and bunches it up. "Cas, I'm going to lay you down for a sec so I can mark the wall, okay?"

When Dean reaches for the blood pooling down his stomach, he lets loose of Dean's shirt and grabs his wrist instead.

"No. It is too tainted to work."

"Sam, how much water do we have?"

Sam looks up from the saltline he's dribbling around the corner they're occupying. "There's, like, half a bottle I didn't finish."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Dean curses under his breath. "I'm gonna need that." He catches Castiel's eye. "Will my blood work?"

It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does the words squeeze out thin and halting, as if it hurts to breathe. "It will, if you know the correct marking."

Dean fishes out his phone, thumbs through photos, and turns the screen toward him. "Got a portable reference right here." And Castiel's lips twitch with a faint, proud smile before his eyes slide closed.

"Here, Sam." Dean rolls to his feet and tosses him his rosary. "Do the water." And he draws the knife and slashes it quickly across his forearm, juggling his cell with blood-slicked fingers while he paints the protective symbol on the singed wall behind them.

"Okay." Dean swipes the knife clean on his t-shirt, and then twists the hem around his arm for a moment; he's already got Cas' blood all down his front, so what's a little more? "This is as safe as I can get us for the moment. I'll put your arm right, and then we'll see if holy water has any effect on these sigils, okay?" He bends and touches the least bruised spot on Castiel's chin to get his attention. "Cas?"

"Heard you," he murmurs, without opening his eyes.

"Just checking. Sam? You'll need to hold him."

Sam looks helplessly at the bloodied figure. "_Where_?"

It's a good question. Dean kicks clear a space on the floor. "Cas, I'm going to roll you up on your side. Kneel down here, Sam—don't step behind him! One hand here, below the sigil on his hip, other one here, on his side." He lowers his voice. "Don't let him loose; he's probably never felt an arm socket go back in before."

"Great. He better not slug me like you did that time."

"I'm a lot more careful than you were."

Sam rubs his face on his sleeve, flexes his hands, and places them where Dean indicated, bearing down in anticipation of the wrench of pain the angel was about to feel. Castiel's eyes blink open, and his left hand curls up from under him and catches Dean's sleeve.

"I need my hands for this," Dean says quietly. "Hang onto Sam for a few minutes." And he transfers the hand to Sam's shirt tail.

Dean doesn't give any of them time to think about it—he just braces Castiel's shoulder, takes hold of his arm, and brings it up and back and around.

The joint catches with a sharp little jolt Dean feels as a vibration down the muscles of Castiel's arm; and then the bones scrape over each other and snap into place with a not-so-little jolt. Castiel wrenches upward, a short burst of angel voice blistering their ears. The sound cuts off suddenly when he goes limp.

"That got it," Dean mutters, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. He twists his head around and swipes his damp forehead against his sleeve. Carefully he flexes Castiel's arm back and forth until he's satisfied there's no grinding left in the joint.

"So now what?" Sam asks. He snatched his hands away the second he didn't need to hold Castiel down anymore and scooted himself back so he's pressed against the charred beams. "Dean, do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Dean sits back on his heels, watching the symbols well up with sticky black blood that just plain _looks_ evil. "What do you think? But common sense is tellin' me to clean out the poison. Holy water's all I know that can counter this kind of power. I mean, something that's taking out an_ angel?_"

Sam plucks the bottle of water out of the space between two beams where he'd stashed it. "It's going to hurt him, you know that, right?"

"If it works, it's going to stop him dying."

He takes the bottle from Sam and sends out a wordless plea, not that it will do one damn bit of good. The sigil on Castiel's right shoulder, the one he just put back in its socket for him, is closest; and so he starts there, tilting the bottle and carefully letting a thin stream of blessed water pour out over – into – the carved lines.

The holy water trickles down, washing a trail through all the dark streaks patterning his skin. For a second, nothing happens—laid bare without the coating of blood, the glyph is an ugly swirl of lines, representing ugly intent.

Then a wisp of smoke rises from the point where two lines intersect. Another coils up along the trail of water. The whole symbol sheets over with a rush of smoke, invisible fire pouring down Castiel's arm and side, every place water touched blood. The shock of it jolts him back awake, his eyes going wide, and Dean nearly has the bottle knocked out of his hand when Castiel wrenches away from the bitter burn of it.

"Hold still! Hold still, Cas!" Dean catches him one-handed as he rolls, yanks him back and jams him down grimly. "Sam, dammit, gimme a hand!"

It takes both of them to keep him from pulling away; his eyes have gone unfocused with that frantic blankness again and it's not until the last drops of holy water have sizzled off that he blinks and shivers and recognition returns.

"Sorry," Dean says, "sorry, Cas, but I have to." He glares at Sam, "Don't let go!" and shifts his stance, gets his knee up on one hip, free hand flattened just above that godawful hole in his chest, tilts the bottle, pours.

He only arches up for a second, sinks back down with shudders racing up and down his body, and rides it out without a sound. The smoke fades and Dean breathes hard and swallows harder and bends close to look. "I think it's working. Cas, I think maybe... The lines don't look as deep now." He skates one finger over the symbol. "They're definitely more shallow. If I…" He breaks off, gives the bottle a little shake. Only a half-inch of water sloshes in the bottom. "If I can get more water, a shit-load of water, we might beat this."

Castiel is breathing too hard to answer. Dean eases his knee off his hip and looks helplessly around the church. "There isn't any water in this place, is there?"

Sam shakes his head. "I didn't see a creek outside, either, or even any rainwater in the ditch."

Dean brushes his thumb across the symbol again and winces as the motion startles another shudder from the angel. He's still bleeding from the other sigils, and that hole through his shoulder is scaring the crap out of Dean.

"We need to do like we did back at that motel," Sam says. "Fill a tub and dunk him in. We might have to do it a few times, but the volume of water a bathtub holds will have more of an effect than a few splashes at a time."

Dean's stomach clenches at the thought of that much holy water hitting all those incised lines, not to mention the shoulder wound, all at once. "The shock could kill him."

"Dean, look at him—we screw around much longer, the delay will kill him."

"I know." Dean draws a shaky breath. "I know, and I said I wouldn't let him…" He stops. "I won't. So yeah, we have to do it."

"_Dean_."

Castiel is looking at him through barely-open eyes. The bruising on his face – at least Dean hopes it's the bruising – is making them look sunken and dark. He tries to moisten his lips and flinches at even that slight movement. Dean slides a hand beneath his chin and dribbles the remaining water into his mouth without thinking; but Castiel swallows without any sign of stinging smoke.

The poison isn't all the way through him, not yet. It can't be, if he can still drink holy water.

"You hear what we're going to do?" Dean gets a short nod in return. "It's going to be rough, Cas."

"Necessary." He frowns, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Sam is right. I am slipping."

"What did I tell you about that? Now gimme your arm—lifting you is going to hurt, but we need to get you out to the car."

Castiel twitches his head in the smallest shake. "Wing needs to fold first."

And Dean's stomach folds into a knot of churning nausea. "Aww, hell, _Cas!_"

"You must. I cannot."

"It's gonna… Cas, it's so broken—it'll hurt like Hell, and I mean that literally."

"I can stand it."

"You shouldn't…" He breaks off, turns his head away from the calm trust overlaying the hurt in the angel's gaze. He looks down at the seemingly empty space at Castiel's back, remembering from that earlier flickering glimpse how twisted and broken the wing had looked.

The ifrin may have started the damage this time, but Castiel's own _brother_ had finished it.

He swallows hard and turns back. "Okay, but here's the deal. I'll get it folded up out of the way, but once you've got your angel mojo back, you heal it, angel_ brethren_ finding you be damned." He waves his hand at the blade gleaming amidst the charred rubble. "I've got this pig-sticker now, I'll cut down any prick that comes for you, got it?"

"If I can, yes," Castiel agrees quietly.

"Okay then, as long as that's clear." Dean rubs his sweaty hands on his jeans and draws in a deep breath. "I'm not going to just smash it down into your back, either; I'll set the bones straight first, so it doesn't heal all crooked. It might take a little longer, but I bet it won't hurt as much when I get done fixing it."

Sam frowns at him. "Dean, what do you know about fixing _angel wings?_"

"It's just bones, right? I can set bones." He summons up a cocky grin from someplace. "I'm damn good at it, trust me."

"I do, Dean."

And that calm statement nearly does him in. What he's about to do is akin to torture, never mind that it's meant to repair, not maim—it's still going to be agonizing.

And Cas _trusts_ him.

Dean has to stare up at the shadowed ceiling from a long moment before he can get his voice working again. "Make it visible, Cas, and keep it so I can see it," he says, low, and to Sam, "Keep him still, and I mean _still_. I do not want to fuck this up."

Sam no longer looks nervous, he looks downright scared, and when the wing fades into view, he winces, but he does shift all his weight forward to bear down on the angel.

Dean places his hands on the top arch of the wing; the bone that rises from Castiel's back is the worst, really badly askew, and he can feel the breaks in it grate when he runs two fingers lightly along it. He runs his fingers up the bone again, pressing at the cracked spots one by one to line up the rough ends.

And then he pulls, with a quick, sharp yank; Castiel jumps, hard, and Sam looks startled and gets a better grip on him and bears down even harder.

It doesn't look quite as twisted now; Dean can barely feel the breaks when he runs his fingers over them yet again. He slides his hand lower, finds the next thin, snapped bone, grasps it and tugs it straight. A shudder rocks Castiel, but beyond that he doesn't move. Dean moves his hand to the next break; the feathers here should be heavy and dense, but there are only a few left, and the skin connecting them is split into deep, bloodless fissures.

"I had to set my dad's whole hand once," Dean says, just to hear his own voice, just to keep the nausea at bay. "We were workin' a job in upstate New York, _way_ upstate, near Pulaski. Second year you were at school, Sam." He moves his hands to the next broken bone, pulls it straight with a sharp motion, feels Castiel's awful, involuntary shudder. "Right off of Lake Ontario. Nice couple who bought this old Gothic Victorian to fix up, they thought all the weird shit happening was from the damn wind that blew all the time. Things started to escalate; Dad figured it was a poltergeist. A kid had died at the house years before, fell out of his treehouse when he was about thirteen. Seemed like a pretty straightforward case."

Dean smoothes a few bent feathers, stomach clenching at the rough, lifeless feel of them. One ragged end of bone is poking clear through the skin beneath them, and when he eases it back in and then tugs it straight, Castiel makes a small noise in the back of his throat. Dean raises his voice determinedly and reaches for the next bone.

"Warded the corners of the house, even did a salt an' burn at the kid's grave for good measure." Broken bone under his fingers, a quick yank, on to the next. Castiel shudders, and his hand grips the hem of Sam's shirt so tightly that the blistered skin splits, leaking fluid over the binding symbol. "Went back to walk through the house, make sure it was clean, and something throws Dad clear down the front hall. Slammed his hand in this huge mahogany pocket door and wouldn't let him loose."

Dean pulls another bone straight, tries to straighten a few more ragged feathers. Sam's still holding Castiel, but Dean catches him blinking rapidly. He bites his lip, and he might just be uneasy about forcing an angel immobile on the floor, but when he gives his head an odd little twitch, half head-tilt, half shake, Dean's stomach drops.

"Turns out it wasn't the kid at all, but his father's spirit. While we were searching for his grave, we heard stories that he knocked the kid around, had maybe even killed him, not that anybody had given a damn back then, fifty years ago. Anyway, after we salted and burned the old bastard, Dad made me set his hand. We were between insurance cards."

Dean pulls a last thin bone straight and studies the wing worriedly. He thinks he's gotten them all—they look straighter, anyway, and the joints aren't nearly as crooked. Slowly he runs his hand down the length of the wing, trying not to disturb the sparse feathers any more than they already are.

He's going to _kill_ that self-righteous dick.

"Lot of little bones in a hand, y'know. Dad made sure I did a real good job. I think I did okay on this, Cas."

He doesn't get an answer.

Dean shifts position, easing in so his knees are pressed right up to the back of Castiel's waist. The blood from the wound in his back is leaking down under his wing, staining the dark feathers even darker, and Dean finds he can't stand seeing it. He reaches over and snags a handful of gauze from the bag, wiping at the blood as best he can. More seeps out as soon as he finishes, so he folds one of the spare shirts and presses that against the deep gash.

"Hang on just a little longer, Cas. I think I can get it folded now."

Sam licks his lips and darts his eyes around the wrecked church. "Dean, wait—do you hear chanting?"

He_ so_ does not need this right now. "No, and neither do you. Stay with me, Sam. Don't go losing it until his wing's folded."

Sam gives his head another of those odd twitches. "It's really quiet, but I can hear it. I think I need to get out of here."

"Give me one damn minute to fold his wing so Cas fits in the car," Dean grits out.

"He fit before." Sam shakes his head again, a little rattle like he's trying to dislodge something from his ear.

"I don't think the ifrin dragged it out as far as the archangel or Zachariah did. Focus, Sam. Help me out here."

Sam's face has gone pale in the dim light, but he sucks in a quick breath and nods.

Dean puts one hand at the base of Castiel's wing and the other on the first joint that needs to bend. He presses up and back—bones grate, and he shifts his palm higher, trying to brace the breaks. The silhouette flickers so hard the remaining feathers lose definition, blending into a solid charcoal shadow.

"Cas. Wing."

He makes a very faint noise and the silhouette fades back in. Dean presses again and the joint clicks and starts to close.

"Dean, you don't hear that?"

"I hear _bones_ grating. Just breathe through it, Sam," Dean snarls.

The joint folds shut. Dean doesn't dare move his left hand—it's keeping the shattered bone that rises from Castiel's back from twisting apart again. He slides his right hand all the way down to the next joint and slips his fingers into the crook. "Hang on, Cas."

A thin sheen of sweat has broken out on his face, and what Dean can see of his skin beneath the darkening bruises is grey. Dean starts to draw the next joint up and back and Castiel's mouth moves once, soundlessly. Dean can feel the strain in the tendons beneath his left hand, and the ominous creak of bone.

And when he brings the joint closed with another of those gut-wrenching snaps, Castiel's hand drops away from Sam's shirt and flops limply to the floor.

The silhouette winks out completely.

"Cas! _Cas!_" Dean doesn't dare jiggle him to wake him up and he doesn't dare move his hands. He's holding _something_ – he can still feel the rough scrape of damaged feathers beneath his hands – he just can't see them. "Sam, wake him up!"

"Um, hey." Sam eases the death grip he's got on the angel and gives him a tentative shake. "Castiel—wake up."

"Cas!" Dean barks, but he knows it's no use—he can feel how limp the angel's body has gone. "Sam, I need him awake so I can see what I'm doing."

"Can't you just…?" Sam makes a two-handed pushing gesture against the air.

"No, because I don't want to cripple him!" Dean closes his eyes and breathes hard for a moment. "Pin him down with one hand and dig your other thumb into the hole in his chest," he says, low and intense.

"Dean—what? No!" Sam tips over onto his ass in shock.

It makes him sick, but he needs Cas awake. "Pin him down and dig your _thumb_ into the _hole_ in his chest and _wake him the fuck up_," Dean snarls.

Either it's the tone of his voice or the fire in his eye, but Sam's helpless to refuse. He jams his weight onto the angel's upper body and sets his thumb against the edge of the leaking sword wound and twists it down and in.

And Castiel nearly levitates off the floor despite Sam's efforts, and he scours their ears with his voice while Dean struggles grimly not to lose his grip on the shifting bones.

"Sorry, Cas, sorry, oh god, I'm so sorry," Dean's mumbling as Castiel slumps back onto the filthy floor, panting. "Cas, I'm sorry, but I need you to show your wing. Just another minute, tops."

He rolls his head so he can look back over his shoulder at Dean, understanding overlaying the haze of pain and fading fear in his eyes. "Do not blame…" He breaks off to gasp a few short breaths. "_Necessary_, I know."

He rolls his head back down and the silhouette fades back in, not as clearly as before but enough for Dean to finish bending the joint closed.

It clicks again, the sound sharp in the quiet church. Dean stretches his arm full length to gather in the ragged wingtips, left hand still bracing the shattered bone at the top where Zachariah had so cruelly twisted. And Castiel's whole wing furls and sinks down out of sight, leaving them both shaking and heaving for breath.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and, eyes closed, Castiel shakes his head, and then, "It'll be easier to heal if it's not all mangled, right?" and he jerks a quick nod, but it doesn't make Dean feel any less sick.

Sam's shoved himself back against the beams again, looking green and a little horror-struck, but at least he's not talking about freakin' chanting anymore. He'll just have to deal with the lengths Dean's willing to go to for them.

Dean paws through the bag, flings a shirt at Sam. "Tear that into strips," he says shortly, while he folds a second t-shirt to press over the deep gash below Castiel's collarbone. There isn't much gauze left, but he tapes pieces over the carved symbols until he runs out.

"Gotta sit up, Cas," and Dean's not even trying to avoid touching the sigils now, he just grabs wherever he can get a grip and pulls the angel up. Chips of ancient plaster, slate, and charred bits of wood are ground all down Castiel's side where he'd been lying, and Dean takes a second to scrape away the worst of it.

"Tuck your arm up," he says quietly. Nothing happens-- Dean has to bend his right elbow for him so his arm rests snug to his chest, because Castiel only blinks uncomprehendingly at him. Dean snaps his fingers at Sam for the strips of torn shirt. "I'm going to tie it up so your shoulder doesn't move around, okay? It'll hold the bandages in place, too."

After a brief delay, he nods. He's having trouble staying upright, so Dean motions for Sam to prop him up while he binds Castiel's arm in place. Sam's not looking too good himself—he's still pale, and he keeps clenching his jaw and then swallowing convulsively. "Sam, you okay?" he asks as he knots the ends securely.

"Yeah… no… not quite. Feel… weird."

"Can you keep it together 'til we get out of here?"

Sam looks at him helplessly. "No."

Dean makes a grab for him as he topples, already shaking; he misses. Sam collapses on the floor and clamps his hands over his ears. He yells, writhing back and forth in the debris. Castiel gets his free hand up, wraps it around a fallen beam, and drags himself back out of the way so Dean can reach his brother.

Dean spreads his palm over Sam's forehead and steadies his head. The shaking goes on and on; Dean's starting to get seriously anxious when finally Sam's legs slow their frantic churning. His muscles unlock, so Dean rolls him up onto his side and squeezes his shoulder while he recovers. Finally Sam coughs. He pulls roughly out of Dean's grasp, sitting up and then bending forward until his head nearly touches his knees. "I need to get out of here," he croaks.

"Okay." Dean lets himself tip over until he's sitting. He throws a quick glance over at the angel, propped dazedly against the wall, and then back to Sam, slumped over like he's not going anywhere without a lot of effort. Dean drags his knees up, folds his arms over them, and lowers his head. "Lemme know when you can move under your own steam," he says tiredly.

It takes a minute, but Sam finally straightens. Dean heaves himself to his feet, gives Sam a hand up; when he's standing, he brushes off Dean's hands and starts for the door. "I can manage. Get him," Sam says, with a vague wave back toward the angel.

Dean hooks his crowbar through his belt. "Come on, Cas." He gets him under the arms and pulls him up, the muscles he bruised when he hit the pews protesting loudly. He ducks beneath Castiel's left arm. "Go slow, so you don't trip on the crap on the floor."

"Sword," Castiel rasps, and Dean snags it as they shuffle past.

He has to half-lift, half-drag him over the beams blocking the corner and his back twinges sharply again. He's so damn heavy, and he almost tears free of Dean's hold as they stumble over the obstacle. Dean catches him and reels him back, and Castiel's hand knots in Dean's shirt again.

They crunch across splinters from the pews, and Dean winces—he'd forgotten that Castiel lost his shoes.

"It is fine," the angel breathes, as if he knows what Dean's thinking—and for a change, Dean doesn't mind, because that means he's still got some of his angel powers, right?

He hasn't slipped too far if he can still hear Dean's thoughts.

They scuff through the vestibule, torn pages drifting aside with quiet rustles as they pass. Dean half-turns and bumps the double doors with his hip and Castiel jerks his head back, screwing his eyes closed against the streams of afternoon light.

"Too bright," he groans softly.

It _isn't_ particularly bright, which sends worry gnawing through Dean's stomach. Hazy clouds cover the sky, and the sun's dipped low enough that the newly-leafed-out trees screen its light. When Dean pauses and looks at him, there's an eerie rim of brightness seeping at the scrunched-tight corners of Castiel's eyes.

Dean jabs the sword into the floorboards and lays his hand gently across the angel's eyes. His heart nearly stops when his fingers glow red, like when he and Sam were kids and played with Dad's flashlight, shining it under their chins or through their hands.

"Cas, stop. Get back here. Remember what I said?"

"No slipping."

"Damn right. You're not leaving us to fight this alone." Dean waits while the angel makes a visible effort to draw himself back. The glow illuminating Dean's fingers fades out and he draws a shaky breath and drops his hand. "That's better. Just a little longer. Just hang on until we can get these symbols washed out."

"Yes, Dean."

Sam's at the bottom of the front steps, looking hollowed out from withdrawal and dusty with plaster and ash from rolling around on the floor. He's swishing his crowbar through the tall grass, tearing off feathery clumps with soft ripping sounds, but when Dean starts down the steps with Castiel draped against him, he drops the crowbar and reaches up to seize a beltloop, keeping the angel from pitching head-first down the church steps.

Castiel doesn't climb into the car so much as collapse into it. Dean tries to help him get situated, stuffing one shirt beneath his head, draping another over his bare upper body. It doesn't seem to help; he just sinks down against the seat and goes slack, not even doing that settling-in motion Dean's gotten used to seeing when he's preparing to rest.

They need to book out of there, but Dean can't tear himself away from the open car door just yet. "Cas?"

His eyes slit open, and Dean's terrified he's going to see that spill of light again, but they're just a flat, glassy blue. "Stop blaming yourself, Dean. I made a choice," he whispers hoarsely through dry, swollen lips.

Dean shakes his head. "Not to be _poisoned_. What… what's it doing to you?"

"Burning through."

And _that_ kicks his ass into gear, gets him up out of his crouch and into the driver's seat, crowbar tangling at his hip before he can yank it loose, sword clattering into the floor well like a cheap boardwalk prize. Damn wires won't twist properly in fingertips gone thick and sweaty, it's only the third try that gets the freakin' engine to catch.

He drives. Sam looks tired, and mouths things at him, annoying shit, 'Dean, calm down, Dean, ease up, Dean, it'll be okay, Dean Dean Dean', shut up Sam, would you, just shut up let me drive.

He doesn't know where he's going, just lets instinct take over. Town is too crowded, so he doesn't take that turnoff. The interstate is too well-traveled, so when he sees a sign for the old, two-lane highway the interstate superseded, he spins the wheel that way instead.

It's a huge relief when he rounds the first curve and a motel is waiting at the side of the road. There's a long yellow ribbon around the trunk of the buckeye tree next to the office and a POW/MIA flag on the pole out front, near the bus stop shelter. The building is shabby, but not decrepit; the paint's faded, but it looks clean enough, isn't falling apart.

It's not like he can afford to be picky.

There are only two cars in the lot, but he notices a man squatting on the stoop in front of one door, olive drab coat pulled tight to his throat, smoke trailing from the cigarette in his fingers. Another door opens a crack when Dean rocks the car to a stop, the engine loud and obnoxious. The blue light of a TV flickers off a pale, scruffy face peering suspiciously out at them.

The motel sign says _Walter's,_ and 'Daily, Weekly, Monthly rates'; the 'No' in front of 'Vacancy' is covered over with a little flap of white-painted wood. Dean's not searching out an emptier motel, not with Cas looking like this, he's not.

He reaches for the door handle and Sam snatches at his elbow. "Dean! Your shirt!"

Oh. Yeah. He looks… like a serial killer just off a spree or something. Cas' blood is all down his front and his own has soaked through the sleeve of his button-down. There are smudged, bloody handprints along the hem.

Sam cranes over the seat and passes him the last clean t-shirt. "Wipe your hands, too."

Dean spits, rubs his hands on the ruined shirts until they look okay except for the dark creases of his knuckles but maybe no one will look too close. He squirms out of his shirts and pulls on the clean one. Stretches up and peers in the mirror.

"On your neck." Sam takes the bloodied t-shirt from him, spits on a corner, scrubs smudges off his neck. "Okay. It's on your jeans where he was lying, though."

"I'll stay behind the counter."

A bell jangles when Dean pulls open the door. Inside it's warm and cozy, more like a living room than a motel office. The counter's low, and Dean steps up to it quickly to hide the dark stains down his jeans.

There's a mountain of a woman ensconced in a wide chair behind it, and when Dean comes in, she raises a remote and mutes the sound on the TV on the wall. She's got her own little domain set up in the space behind the L-shaped counter—microwave and coffee pot on a cart to her left, a radio, computer on the counter, and Dean can hear the quiet crackle and squawk of a police scanner from the shelves to the right.

She heaves her chair sideways so it rolls up to the counter, the light from the small table lamps gleaming on blonde hair fading to silver. "Help you?"

"Need a room. Uh, double."

"For the night or the week, hon?"

"Umm…" Dean's mind blanks; he hasn't gotten beyond just getting to a motel so he can stop Cas from 'slipping' any further. "Not sure, actually."

"Well, then, I'll put you down for one, you need to stay longer you stop by and I'll ring another night through, how's that? Not like I've got crowds beating down my door, huh?"

Her blue eyes are tired, but kind. Dean finds himself nodding wordlessly, and he takes the registration card she slides across the counter with her soft, rounded hand.

He looks around the office, trying to stifle his impatience while she runs his credit card and enters his info in the computer with business-like clicks. The basket on the counter is full of pamphlets, not for the usual local attractions, but for 12-step meetings, VA programs, and Social Security benefits. There's a framed photo beside it. It's facing so that it's the first thing visible when the woman glances up from her chair. When Dean shifts sideways to look at it, he gets a little jolt of recognition, because it looks like an old photo Dad used to have, years ago, in with some old papers about his service and discharge. Dad's was his Corps photo, taken in his dress uniform; this one's Army, the boy pictured a little older than Dad, lighter hair, a narrower face, but with the same serious determined eyes.

Dean feels the weight of the woman's gaze on him, and looks up to see her watching him, his credit slip in her hand. "That's my Walter," she says, and her eyes get even more tired as she adds, "June the fourth, 1972."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and means it, and she nods and pokes the slip across the counter for him to sign.

And as he scrawls a fake name across the bottom, something prompts him to catch her eye again. The ribbon, the flag out front... the photo. They all tell him he can maybe confide in her. A little. Sort of. Just enough to cover their asses. "Umm, ma'am?"

"Onnie," she tells him.

"Onnie… My brother and I are checking in with a buddy." It'll be tricky, because obviously the strict truth isn't possible. "He's… he's a soldier." Well, that part is true, pretty much, and Dean doesn't miss how Onnie's eyes go soft with sympathy. "He just got back, and he's… he's kinda messed up. He's not dangerous," Dean says quickly. "He just might… yell a little."

Onnie looks from Dean's short, spiky hair to the cord just visible beneath the collar of his t-shirt to the fresh gash on his forearm. Her expression sags from weary to sad. "Oh, hon, that's too bad."

"He won't cause any trouble. He might get a little loud, is all. He won't mean to, but…"

"Don't you worry about it. The long-term guys here are all vets; I try to watch out for them. I'll put you down at the end, okay? And I understand what you're asking—I don't involve the cops if I can avoid it."

"Thanks, Onnie."

She nods and slides a key over to him. "You need anything, you call. I'm here all night, I don't sleep too good."

His heart is already starting to speed up when he hustles back out to the car. They'll be lucky if she doesn't end up calling the cops—between Sam's fits and what he's about to do to Castiel, there may be too much noise for Onnie to ignore.

Dean reaches into the backseat, tilting Castiel's chin up. He startles, hard, jerking free of Dean's fingers with a flash of panic. He's breathing, though, and not leaking light out of his eyes. "Easy, Cas. Almost there."

Recognition overlays the panic and he nods.

And Dean slides into the driver's seat to move the car and its passengers down to the room where he's going to commit what amounts to torture, of an angel.

* * *


	6. Constellations in my eyes

See part 1 for disclaimer & notes.

Here's the next installment of my essay "What I Did On Summer Vacation: Angel!whump And Nothing But". Er, enjoy? :)

And thank you again to everyone who is reading, and also commenting; I can't say it enough how much I appreciate it.

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 6**

* * *

The guy smoking on the front step is still watching them.

Dean pulls the car as close to their room as he can, but there's still a gap with a clear sight-line down the walkway fronting the motel. The guy doesn't move beyond raising the cigarette to his lips, taking a measured drag, and lowering it again, but Dean can feel his eyes boring steadily into him.

To hell with him. He's either going to cause trouble or he's not, and if he does, Dean'll deal with it like he always does.

He gets out and flips the seat forward. "Cas, we're here."

The angel doesn't respond this time. Castiel is all drawn up into a tense knot, arms folded tight to his chest, legs bent nearly double on the cramped seat. Thin streamers of blood are trailing down onto the seat, even from the sigil on his right shoulder that Dean treated; as he watches, another dark bead wells up and snakes down until it touches the shirt bunched over his chest.

"Cas, can you wake up now?"

_Please let him wake up._ Because it'll be easier if he can walk, and it'll look better to their audience if Dean's not dragging an unconscious guy inside a motel… and because Dean needs him to. Castiel doesn't seem to know what to do with unremitting pain that can't be angel'd away. It left him dazed and exhausted after the archangel when it was his choice to remain hidden rather than heal himself. And now he_ can't_ use his angel mojo, or Grace, or whatever the hell makes it work.

"Uh, Dean…"

Sam's behind him, shifting a little from side to side. "Go open the door and start filling the tub," Dean says without turning around.

"I did."

"Then just _wait_, okay?"

Dean can feel Sam's pissy-face burning into his back, but he ignores him. He puts his hand on Castiel's arm, because whenever he touched his chin it seemed to freak him out, and gives it a tentative squeeze-shake. "Cas?"

There. His eyelids crack open – no brilliant light spilling out, thank christ – and he shivers. "Dean?"

"Right here. Gonna get you inside, get this demon blood washed out of you."

He pulls Castiel up, unbends his legs and lifts his feet out the car door. Gets his arms around the angel, under his left arm and over his bound right one, locks his hands tight behind his back. Dean heaves, backing out of the car and trying to duck both their heads. Castiel's legs buckle the second he's out, and he slides down Dean's front, his face skidding past his shoulder and halfway down his chest before Dean bumps them both back against the car and can brace him there.

Sam, of course, has disappeared.

"Can you… get your arm around my neck?" Dean pants, and even though Castiel's knees are still so loose they won't support him, he somehow flops his left arm up and around so it lands behind Dean's neck. "Make your knees stiff," he says, but Castiel either can't manage or doesn't understand, because when Dean straightens and tries to take a step, their legs tangle, nearly throwing them both to the ground.

"Sorry," he slurs when they've lurched back against the car, breathing hard.

"It's okay. I know you're not used to hurting like this." Dean aims his voice toward the motel room. "Sam!" he hisses loudly. "_Sam!_"

His brother appears in the doorway. "Water's ready."

"Good. But come _help_ me."

Sam comes out and gets an arm around the angel's other side and he and Dean hoist Castiel to the door, knocking into one another and stumbling when his feet get in the way and trip them up.

The guy at the end is still watching, bent into an easy squat on the step, squinting past the smoke curling from his cupped hand.

The doorsill nearly does them in—they have to step up and step over and Castiel is beyond stepping anywhere at this point. They don't fit three abreast through the door anyway; the doorframe peels Sam off like a bad sunburn. Dean pitches through with his arms full of angel and lets momentum carry them clear across the room until they fetch up hard on the far wall. He grunts as the impact jars the sore muscles at his back and then grunts again as Castiel falls so heavily against him it forces the air from his chest in a sharp huff.

He's trying to stand under his own power, legs buckling repeatedly and hand scrabbling for purchase on Dean's shoulder, pushing up and back only to crash forward again. Dean can feel the suddenly panicked flutter of his breath against his neck. "Easy, easy, it's okay. We're good, Cas." He slings his arm around and hoists him higher, ignoring the deep twinge between his shoulderblades. "I've got you."

Castiel shakes his head, knocking it clumsily against Dean's chin, eyes frantic. "_Not_ good, wrong, it's wrong…" His arm slips away, and despite Dean's grip he sinks toward the floor.

"Goddammit! _Sam!_"

Sam strides through the door, the golden sword draped in a discarded bloody shirt tucked beneath his arm. He kicks the door shut and tosses the sword carelessly onto the nearest bed as he crosses the room. Dean's slid down to the floor, Castiel's dark head tucked beneath Dean's chin, and when Sam reaches them, he flinches at the naked panic in his brother's eyes.

Beneath Dean's clenched arms, Castiel's heartbeat stutters, throbs a hollow beat, stutters again.

"Sam, _help me_."

"What d'you want to do?"

"Tub! Now!"

Dean surges upward, back braced on the wall. He jams his hands under Castiel's armpits, and Sam catches him beneath his knees and somehow they stagger upright. Dean backs into the bathroom.

There's a clear line to the tub—Sam's already torn down the shower curtain, and the bathmat is crumpled in the corner. Terror lends Dean the strength to hoist Castiel's deadweight body up and over the side of the tub. Sam's a half-step behind, and he nearly cracks head-first into the tiled wall before he drops the angel's blue-jeaned legs with a tremendous splash and throws out a hand to catch himself.

"Get the rosary out of the water," Dean snarls, and Sam snatches it off the faucet, just before the water wipes to a murky grey.

Dean's shoving Castiel down beneath the water to his chin. He's still limp, not fighting in the slightest, but Dean grits his teeth and bears down heavily anyway. "Here it comes."

The water erupts into frenzied bubbling, smoke billowing up in a sulphurous rush. Sam twists aside, coughing, but Dean can't afford to turn away—Castiel's eyes snap open and he arches nearly all the way out of the water, hand clawing wildly, heels skidding at the head of the tub.

Deep in the dark place behind Dean's ribs, a switch flips; mercilessly he slams the angel back beneath the water. It seethes up in a violent boil across sigils and sword wounds as he wrenches against Dean's hold. The cloth binding his right shoulder splits, allowing his arm to fly up, fist skimming Dean's jaw.

Dean snaps his head aside. In the second it takes him to turn back, Castiel has flung his head back against the slick porcelain and light is swelling at his mouth and nose and ears, streaming out around the edges of his eyes.

"Oh, no, you don't." Dean seizes his arm, hauls him up in a great sloshing wave, gives Castiel a hard shake that scatters light across shining tile. "Get your angel ass back here, you hear me?"

"Dean, stop!" Horrified, Sam snatches at his brother, and Castiel's wet, blood-slicked arm slides free, dropping the angel back into the water with a heavy splash.

"Get off me!" Dean slaps Sam's hand from his shoulder, the impact echoing off the dripping tile. When Sam recoils, he reaches down, pressing his hand over the base of Castiel's throat. "Cas, don't you dare let that sonuvabitch win."

The light shimmers, just on the cusp of spilling over, and Dean freezes, afraid to blink, to move even one goddamn muscle. He can feel the sluggish thud of Castiel's – or the vessel's, they're pretty much one and the same thanks to the demon blood – heart beneath the heel of his hand. He holds his breath, terrified each pulse will be the last.

The water steaming around his wrists and over the carved body slowly stills as the blood leaches out its power.

The light shivers, caught on a razor-thin edge; and then it sinks back into his eyes. Castiel arches up as it absorbs, sucking in a huge, gasping breath. Dean catches him as he starts to slide down the sloped back of the tub.

"Easy. Easy. Got you. Just breathe. You're okay. Just breathe, okay? And don't go anywhere." He throws a glance over his shoulder at Sam. "Flip the drain, let the water out." He sets his jaw. "We need to do it again."

He holds Castiel's head above the water until it gurgles away down the drain. After a moment, the angel drags his eyelids up—the light's completely receded, Dean's relieved to see, leaving only glazed, flat blue that fastens onto Dean's face unblinkingly. Dean holds his gaze even though it makes his stomach curl with guilt. Dean clears his throat against the lump in it.

"Gotta do it again, Cas," he says, low, and then directs his voice back to Sam. "Get something from the kitchen to rinse away some of this blood."

He peels sodden, stained gauze off the sigils, rights the wastebin he'd kicked over in the struggle, and drops the gauze in. The shirts he'd used as bandaging have washed to the bottom of the tub; Dean fishes them out and slings them into the sink with wet slaps.

The holy water hasn't made a dent in the sword wound; it still gapes darkly in Castiel's chest, leaking blood in a sluggish crawl down his ribs. The sigil on his stomach doesn't look much better, and the one on his right elbow where Dean grabbed and shook him has torn wide open, the incised lines ripped into a muddle of skin and blood.

"He needs to get out," Sam says from the door behind them. He's holding the plastic ice bucket, and when he lowers it beside Dean, it's full of water.

"Yeah, okay. Get me a towel." Dean picks up the bucket. "Just plain water, right?"

"Yeah." Sam tosses a towel so it lands on the toilet seat.

"Sit up, Cas." Dean tilts him forward, pours the bucket over the grey pall of blood coating his skin and watches it swirl in a murky stream down the drain.

"Little help, Sam?" Dean rises into a crouch. He gets the angel under the arms, locks his knees and hauls upward, straining to drag him up and over the side of the tub. "Holy god!" Sam ducks in and gets him beneath the knees again, but when he slings Castiel's legs out, Dean overbalances, his feet skidding from under him, and he sits heavily on the floor with Castiel sprawled half on top of him.

"Dean, that is blasphemy," he says softly.

Dean huffs out a short, humorless laugh. "Think that's the least of my worries," he says, snagging the towel and bundling it around Castiel's shoulders. He looks at his brother. "Hurry up, Sam."

Sam rinses more blood down the drain so it doesn't taint the blessed water before they start, then cranks the tap open. While the tub fills, Dean presses the towel against the hole through Castiel's shoulder; it darkens almost instantly. "This blood's not even a little red anymore," he mutters.

Castiel's head rolls where it's braced on Dean's shoulder. "Nearly burned through," he murmurs, calmly, as if he's observing an interesting phenomenon outside his own body. His hand tips sideways to find Dean's knee. "Do not blame yourself if this does not work."

Dean's eyes go blank and cold. "Hurry the fuck up, Sam."

The water sizzles when Sam dips the crucifix in, sizzles low and menacing while Latin spills off his tongue and the sanctified water washes over the grey traces left in the tub. Sam trails the rosary in a final circle and the water glistens clear and pure. He looks over his shoulder at Dean. "Ready."

They lift Castiel back into the tub. At the last second his eyes drag open and fix on Dean, and that's almost harder than the first time, to have him watching while Dean pushes him under, water biting like acid in those glyphs. When the water roils up and he arches in agony at its touch, Dean still holds his gaze, holds it until his head slams back, eyes finally falling closed.

Castiel's hand flies up, clawing, and Dean lets his own hand shoot out to meet it, wringing together tight enough to break bones while the water burns around the angel.

Finally it subsides again, slick grey waves lapping to stillness. Castiel slides low again, a slight groan slipping from his throat. Dean ducks to swipe his face against his wet shoulder and then tilts the angel's chin out of the water. He looks at Sam. "Again."

Castiel lands in a soggy heap between Dean's sprawled knees while Sam drains the tub, rinses blood residue, re-fills it. He frowns at his brother, wrapping the towel around the angel's shoulders again, fists pressing the rough cotton into either side of the deep gash. "Take his jeans off—they've soaked up so much blood I think they're tainting the holy water too fast."

"Sorry," Dean mutters, reaching around to work the button loose, working drenched denim past his hips so Sam can grab the cuffs and strip the jeans down. It's just one more indignity, but Castiel either doesn't understand that it is or doesn't care—his brows draw together in confusion, and then he shivers as Sam wads up the jeans and pitches them into the sink with the shirts.

"Ready," Sam says a moment later, and Dean steels himself, gathers his legs beneath him, pushes up. Lifts Cas' too-heavy-for-his-size weight and half-rolls him back into the tub.

He can't get his eyes open to fix on Dean this time. But as the water erupts in froth and smoke sheets across his body, Castiel's head tilts back. His throat works, and the air shivers.

"Cas, no angel voice. _Please_, no angel voice," Dean pleads hoarsely.

He surges against Dean's grip, reminding him all over again there's an angel, however weakened, inhabiting that body. It's taking all his strength to pin him down beneath the viciously sizzling water he's trying to escape—though if he were _really_ trying, Dean's sure he couldn't keep him contained.

The water settles again. Castiel's back relaxes and Dean eases his punishing hold, slides one hand beneath his neck, and tilts his head up. His mouth's moving in a nearly soundless whisper. Dean sags, letting his cheek rest on the cool porcelain rim for a moment.

"You're doing good, Cas. You go right ahead and pray if it helps." Personally, Dean doesn't think it does, but then he's no angel.

Castiel's eyes slit open as Sam flips the drain open with a metallic 'clunk'. "Apologizing. For causing you to do this."

"Don't. Just hold yourself together."

Sam's watching the whirlpool circling the drain. "Again?" he asks in a low voice.

Dean shudders. "Again."

And again after that.

And then again.

"I'm going to kill him," Dean whispers. He's got Cas pulled back-to-chest against him, holding him steady while Sam, bent wearily over the faucet with the rosary dangling from his fingers, re-fills the bathtub yet again. Dean's on his second towel, but he's soaked anyway; water is dripping from the ends of Castiel's hair onto Dean's shoulder from when Dean lost his grip and Castiel slid completely under the water for a brief frenzied moment. His lips are blue and he hasn't been able to stop shaking for two whole immersions since the hot water ran out. "I'm going to put Zachariah against a wall and run him through with that sword, right through his throat so I'm not tempted to go all rack-of-Hell on his smug, holier-than-thou ass."

Dean lifts his hand where it's clamped over the sword wound, and his mouth contorts at the sight of the unremitting blood. He presses the towel tight again and lowers his voice. "Even though Zach tortured _you_ when you got pulled back, didn't he?"

For a moment, Castiel is still; then very slightly, he nods, just barely a twitch of his head against Dean's shoulder. Dean lets his own head drop forward. "_Jesus._ I knew it."

"Dean. Blasphemy."

"Sorry. I'll try." He closes his burning eyes and waits for Sam's hoarse whispers to finish so he can push Castiel back beneath water that turns to acid the minute he touches it.

He barely fights this time—just an involuntary jump when the water burns across his torn skin. He sinks down and just lets the water boil up around him; even his hand falls away, no matter how tightly Dean tangles their fingers together.

Despair is creeping in through cracks in the cold determination Dean's filled himself with. The holy water's not working. Well, it's working on the sigils—they've stopped streaming that foul blood when Dean hauls the angel out of the water each time. The lines are smoothing over, filling in to shallow grooves instead of raw, deep slices to the bone.

It's the hole piercing clear through his body that's proving impervious to the holy water.

The drain clunks open and gurgles loudly as the water drains yet again. Stains meander down the floor of the tub, black where they start out beneath Castiel's shoulder, fading to grey as the water dilutes them. Dean watches the murky streams slither over the lip of the drain. He drops his head to the side of the tub. "Cas, I'm sorry."

Sam leans against the wall, and then slowly slides down it, not even noticing he's sitting in a spreading puddle. "It's too strong, isn't it?" He turns his hands in his lap, frowning absently at his pruney fingertips. "Want me to call Bobby again, see if he got anywhere with that fire ritual?"

Dean shakes his head. "He'd've called back if he did." He pushes up, heaving himself wearily to his feet, and then stops halfway, grimacing at the hot wrench in his back.

Sam scrambles up, places one hand on his brother's bent back and digs in. After a moment something pops beneath his fingers, and Dean groans and straightens. He swivels at his waist and stretches his arms behind him until his back pops again. "I'm good. Just help me get him out."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "You want to try again?" he asks quietly.

"'Course I want to try again."

Sam grabs his arm and spins Dean so his back's to the angel slumped in the bottom of the tub. "Don't kill yourself over this, Dean—you've done your best." He frowns harder. "You've been saying for months angels are dicks, anyway," he mutters.

Dean yanks away from his brother, too appalled to even try to answer him. Sam hasn't been paying any attention at all if he hasn't noticed the angel's – _this _angel's – earnest attempts to learn what not being a dick means. Cas tried—he went against orders, he went against programming or indoctrination, or, hell, call it what it was – _torture_ – to help Dean. To figure out what was truly right and what was wrong and to damn well do something about it.

And Sam thinks Dean's still back at "angels are dicks"?

Ruby distracted him, sure; but Sam chose to stay distracted.

So Dean yanks away and bends over the tub and gets his hands under Castiel's arms again and drags at the lax, broken body. He'll do this by himself if he has to. "'M tired, Sam, not killing myself with exhaustion. You gonna grab his legs or what?"

Castiel slides out and Dean sits on the floor with a jarring thump, dragging the angel close enough to jam the soggy towel into the hole in his back. It's still fucking bleeding, a long sluggish crawl that's turned the waistband of his shorts dark, and in the moment it takes Dean to get Castiel braced and pressure on the exit wound, the one at the front wells up and sends a spill of tainted blood down his chest and over Dean's arm where it's clamped across his collarbones.

Sam observes the whole procedure dispassionately, his forehead crumpled with fatigue. "Your idea's sound, Dean—holy water's mostly healed the sigils. It's just not getting deep enough where the sword went in."

Dean's fighting with the soaked towel, trying to work the other end up over Castiel's shoulder so he can bunch it in the entry wound. He barely hears Sam – doesn't want to listen to Sam right this second – yeah angels are dicks, look what they did to _Cas_, doesn't mean he still is one…

_It's just not getting deep enough._

Something that feels like a bolt of that smiting-angel lightning that speared Alastair slams into Dean, tightening his arms instinctively.

_Wet, hacking cough. Drooping eyes rolling up, bloodied lips stretching into a loose sneer. Blood running in a place Dean never wants to revisit while an angel paces in anguish behind a steel door._

"_Not getting deep enough," slurs a taunting voice._

"Oh, hell, no." Dean closes his eyes, screws them so tight flashes erupt behind his eyelids. "No, shit no, not that."

"Dean?"

He feels Sam loom worriedly over him, feels his hand light briefly on his shoulder, then move to press Castiel's throat.

_Fuck no, fuck no, fuck no._

"Dean? Dean!"

Dean drags his eyes open. "Need you to do something for me, Sam."

* * *

It's late when Sam comes back.

He lets himself into the room quietly, cracking the door just enough to slip through and drawing it closed behind him with a 'snick' loud enough in the silence to make him wince. The room's dark except for a dim glow from the clock radio and another suffusing the bathroom.

"You get it?" Dean asks, his indistinct shadow shifting against the low light given off by his open cell phone.

"I got it," Sam confirms. He moves across the room with care, but has to bite back a yelp as his knee cracks into a corner of the dresser despite his caution.

"Sorry; the light was bothering him." Dean's voice comes from near the floor, and cloth rustles as he works his way to his feet. "Turn the lights on out there first."

Sam fumbles across the dresser to the table lamp and clicks it on. Dean looks awful—he's wet and blood-smeared, hollow-eyed from exhaustion and grinding worry. Sam flicks his gaze to the bathroom; Castiel is propped against the wall, one of the bedspreads bundled haphazardly over him.

He looks even worse than Dean.

Hurriedly Sam unfolds the top of the pillowcase he's carrying, and pours it out onto the dresser. "These looked like the biggest ones—you think they'll work?"

Dean snaps open a plastic case and pries out a large-bore hypodermic. "Yeah. This'll work." He gives Sam a tired look. "Anybody see you?"

Sam shakes his head. "You were right, though—there were security cameras. I took care of them. Cleared out the opiate cabinet to make the break-in look drug-related like you said. Even snagged some powerbars from the candy rack for later."

"Thanks," Dean says absently. Syringe in hand, he looks into the bathroom and takes a deep breath. The ice bucket rests on the toilet seat, his rosary trailing over its side. "You doin' okay?"

"Seven hours without symptoms and counting," Sam replies. He watches his brother's shoulders lift in another deep breath, and as he exhales, his face wipes to that disturbing remoteness. "Dean? How'd you think of this?"

"Don't ask me that, Sammy."

Dean steps through the door. He crouches down at the angel's side. "Cas?"

Castiel rolls his head sideways. "Go ahead, Dean."

"You want him in?" Sam asks from the doorway, and Dean shakes his head.

"I can reach better from here," he says, his voice distant. He pulls apart the folds of the bedspread and lowers Castiel to the floor. "Try… try not to scream in angel, okay?" he says. Eyes averted from the angel, he holds up the hypodermic. "Barrel's glass—it'll shatter."

"I will try."

Sam crowds into the bathroom, squeezing past Dean to kneel and press his hands to Castiel's chest. Dean turns, dips the needle into the ice bucket, and draws up a full measure of holy water. "Put your knee on his thighs."

What he does next will become colored red in his memory, even when he tries never to think about it again. He sees it in fragments—the needle pricking the center of the gaping wound before sinking deep – Cas' eyes going impossibly wide – the jump of Sam's back as he sucks in a harsh breath.

Castiel's chest leaps; Dean doesn't have to admonish Sam, his brother's already shoving him flat as ruthlessly as Dean would. The plunger sinks under his implacable thumb and Cas kicks a hole through the wall behind the door. The crash registers only as a dull thump in the back of Dean's mind. The sizzle of holy water from deep within an angel's body is much more immediate and horrific.

Even under the combined weight of both Dean and Sam, Castiel manages to bow off the bathroom floor in a taut arc. One hand rises, fingers bent into claws; Sam slams it back down and Dean shifts enough to kneel on his wrist.

The plunger hits bottom. Dean slides the needle out, stretches over, refills it.

He places it higher the second time, just at the edge of the collarbone. The blood that flushes out in the wake of the foaming water is as viscous as sludge, and faintly Dean hears Sam gag.

"Roll him over."

His back is both easier and harder to do—easier because Dean doesn't have to look down into that stricken face while he pushes the needle in… harder because after he empties two syringes into him he has to roll Cas back over and start on the front again.

Castiel's arm gets loose and flies up, knocking the syringe from Dean's grasp. He hears it shatter somewhere out of sight.

"I got extra," Sam says in a weird echo, and is gone, and then is back, folding Dean's hand around a replacement hypodermic before tucking his folded belt between Castiel's teeth. "Bite down," he says, and then, "He bit through his lip," still in that weird, sound-bounce of a voice.

Dean fills the new syringe and empties it and fills it and when he rolls Castiel, the angel flops flat, limbs splaying, and doesn't move.

"Keep going," Sam's bottom-of-a-cave voice insists, his long fingers dug deep under Castiel's jaw.

And Dean keeps going.

The bucket is nearly empty when Dean reaches over yet again and Sam stills him with a hand on his wrist. "Wait. Look."

Black blood has stopped oozing from the gash. Dean leans back; the roar in his ears subsides and he sits back on his heels as his tunnel vision widens out to let him observe. The wound still looks deep, but it's not leaking black poison. "Sam?"

"I can barely smell it," Sam says, his voice thinned out with tiredness. "I think you might've beaten it, Dean."

It's too soon for hope. Castiel is laid out like a dead thing on a stained bedspread crumpled across the wet tile floor. He's cold, and he's deeply unconscious, and he's had a crazed man injecting what amounts to acid into his body for the last few hours.

The syringe is twisted from Dean's cramped fingers. He looks up, startled, and Sam turns back from setting it aside and closes his hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing hard, rocking him slightly. "Pick him up?"

"Yeah, umm…" Dean draws a couple of quick shallow breaths, willing his heart to stop racing so chicken-shit fast. "Yeah. Pick him up."

He's still so god… so damn heavy. Dean nearly throws his back out clear to the next county before he gets him hoisted up. Sam catches him behind the knees and together they shuffle out of the wrecked bathroom to the bed nearest the door.

Sam lifted tape and gauze and all kinds of goodies when he raided the pharmacy in town. Dean perches on the side of the bed to tape up Castiel's shoulder; when he's finished, he lifts his left hand to the light, turning it side to side with a faint frown. The lines of the binding symbol are still visible beneath the split, blistered skin. "We're going to have to watch this in case it's not burned off enough."

"So we'll watch it," Sam says, and he passes over a roll of bandage.

There's nothing else Dean can do, and he hates the helpless feeling that leaves. He lays his fingers on the side of Castiel's neck and yeah, there's a pulse, and yeah, there's the slight rise and fall of his chest, but maybe he'd like a little more, just something to show he didn't do any permanent damage with his damned needles. "Cas?"

"Let him be, Dean. Let him rest." Sam's urging him up, urging him away, and Dean lets himself be drawn to the other bed. He sinks down and Sam's saying something about lying down, getting a few hours sleep, but Dean can barely hear him over the strange rattling that's coming from somewhere nearby. He clenches his fists and the blood in the creases of his knuckles flakes off into his lap.

"Are your teeth chattering?" Sam moves in and out of his peripheral vision, yapping about wet clothes and extra blankets, and dropping a bag beside him and none of it really matters worth a damn.

"I did that to Alastair," Dean says abruptly, and that shuts Sam up, shuts him up and freezes him in his tracks. "In Wyoming. I did other crap, too, but yeah, the needle full of holy water, that cracked him open."

"Dean…"

"No, it did, Sam. Soon as I started filling it, I could smell his fear. Needle popped his meatsuit's skin, and shit, did he scream. I don't think he was humoring me, either; holy water injected into demon blood is off-the-charts agonizing."

"Dean, you had to do this. You should be glad you thought of it."

"Glad? Sam, I shot an angel full of liquid flame," Dean says bitterly, "the same way I tortured a demon. I shot _Cas_ full of holy water until I nearly killed him! It still might."

"_Stop it_." Sam sends a straight-arm punch into Dean's shoulder, rocking him back from the blow. "You _saved his life_."

"With _torture_. With the kind of evil filth I brought back from the pit." Dean starts to shake. He bends over so Sam can't see his face.

"Dean." All of a sudden Sam's beside him, arm around his back, his hand spread warm across Dean's damp t-shirt. "Listen to me; just listen, okay?" His voice has gone low and terribly intense. "You went into the pit and came back out with knowledge that you used to _save an angel_. How is that a bad thing? You fought fire with fire, okay? Overturned Hell's methods to save the life of your friend. You can't… you can't beat yourself up for that, Dean, you just can't."

Sam can probably feel the moisture dripping off Dean's chin and onto his shirt, but Dean doesn't actually care, not right this minute. Sam's not acting like he's irritated with Dean, or exasperated by the way Hell weakened him.

And he just called Cas Dean's friend.

Maybe Sam was paying attention after all.

* * *


	7. Give me hope, give me comfort

See part 1 for disclaimer & notes.

Sorry for the long delay-- real life kind of blindsided me once summer ended. Thanks for still reading!

* * *

**The Devil You Know**

**Part 7**

* * *

Pounding on the door wakes them far too early.

Dean hears it first as a part of his dreams, fists battering against wet red walls, underlaid with shrill faint screaming that sets his boots to scraping restlessly against the floor. It's not quite enough to drag him fully awake; he's bone-tired, and he's had nightmares that have been far worse. The noise pauses; he's just sinking back under when it picks up again, more insistently.

This time it jerks him awake, the sticky threads of nightmare snapping as his bootheels thud on the floor. He's out of the chair before his eyes are fully open, and he swings toward the door – still closed – then back to Sam – snuffling out from under two pillows and a blanket – and finally to Castiel – in an unmoving curve on the second bed with a pillow jammed behind his back.

"Whassat?" Sam mumbles, pillows falling away from his head as he sits up. "Someone knocking?"

"Ignore it." Dean circles around to Castiel's bed. He can't believe he fell asleep for so long—Dad would have kicked his ass for leaving a room without protections unguarded like that. Daylight is leaking around the edges of the drapes in sharp slices of brightness. "Cas?"

He's not shivering anymore. He's breathing, and when Dean bends and pulls the blanket back, there's no blood on the bandages on his shoulder. Slowly his eyes peel open, and he looks at Dean uncomprehendingly.

"Hey. You doing okay?" Dean asks, and Castiel's forehead crinkles in a slight frown.

The knocking starts up again. "You think we should answer that?" Sam asks.

"No," Dean says without turning around. "Probably just trying to tell us we missed check-out."

"It's only 8:20."

"Then maybe it's an invitation to the breakfast buffet! Leave it, they'll go away." He's got more important things to worry about. He catches Castiel's flat stare and holds it. "Cas? You in there?"

It takes another minute, a minute where Sam nervously watches the door and Dean's stomach tightens while he watches the angel, before the blankness fades away and Castiel nods.

"There you are." Dean releases a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. "How're you doing? You feel okay?"

He nods again, which isn't really much of an answer, but before Dean can press it, the pounding starts again. "Jesu—_jeez_. Go away already!" he snaps, almost under his breath.

As if in response, a voice calls through the door. "Open up, boys. I know you're in there."

It sounds like the manager, what was her name—Onnie. Dean rises and crosses the room swiftly while Sam flings back his blanket and reaches for his pants. Dean tucks the knife behind his back, glances at Sam and gets a nod in return, and unlocks the door. He eases it as far as the flimsy chain double-locking it will allow.

Onnie's on the doorstep, a sweater flung over her shoulders, breathing a little heavily in the morning light. "Open up. You boys may have trouble."

_Shit._ Dean hesitates, then closes the door, unlatches the chain, and pulls it back open, just enough to stick his head out. "What seems to be the problem?"

Onnie shoves the door, just missing Dean's face, and heaves herself up the step to fill the doorway. "It came over the police scanner a little while ago—there was a break-in at Calhoun's Pharmacy overnight."

"That's too bad." Dean resists the urge to glance around at the dresser; he can't remember what might still be scattered across its top. "But why's that our trouble?"

"Hon, I heard that clunker of yours go out and come back in the middle of the night." She gives him a shrewd look. "Long as you don't cause problems in my place, it's none of my business. But anything involving drugs, the cops have a tendency to show up here first when they're asking questions. Some of my guys've been hassled in the past. I'm just giving you a head's up."

"We appreciate it," Sam says, and Dean swings around, frowning, as his brother adds, "We'll clear out right now, okay?"

"That's probably for the best," Onnie agrees. "For you and your…" Her voice trails away.

Dean glances back at her, realizing too late that when he'd turned, she was able to see past him to the second bed. He follows Onnie's gaze to where Castiel is struggling to sit up. His hair's standing straight up above his battered face and he's reaching for the headboard with his bandaged hand. He misses, his hand skimming past the thin cheap wood, and the blanket falls away behind him when he folds in half. Onnie's shocked hiss cuts across the quiet room.

"Sweet Lord, what happened to him?"

Dean abandons his post at the door to wheel quickly back around the foot of the bed. He catches Castiel with a steadying hand and unobtrusively folds the blanket over the sigil scars on his stomach. "Soldier, remember?"

"Yes, but…" Quiet horror is rounding Onnie's eyes; slowly she drags her gaze up to meet Dean's. "That does _not_ look like war injuries. Was he… _captured?_"

Dean nods. "He was."

Onnie shifts, trying to see around Dean's subtly blocking body, unable to tear her gaze from the still-visible lines scarring Castiel's skin. "What _is_ that, some kind of Taliban thing? Why isn't this boy in a hospital?"

"He checked himself out." Castiel half-rises, making another grab for the headboard, and Dean presses him back down. "Cas, sit tight for a minute. He'll be okay," he says to the woman. "We're watching out for him."

Onnie frowns. "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

Dean hopes so, too. Castiel is barely awake, eyes sliding in and out of focus, and yet the second Dean eases his hold, he hitches himself to the edge of the bed and sets his feet on the floor, pushing to stand up. "Where are you going so fast?" Dean asks, as Castiel rocks forward to stand.

His gaze skitters around the room, finally settling on the clothing draped over the chair backs. "Leaving… but pants first… then walking around," he slurs, pushing the words out with an effort.

Dean's silent for a split second before barking out a startled laugh. "Yeah, I did make that rule, didn't I?"

"It's a good rule," Sam says firmly, and drops a pile of folded denim on the end of the bed. "He'll have to wear your spare pair—everything else is still wet."

Onnie keeps watch in the doorway, half-turned toward the road outside, as Sam circles the room and sweeps scattered belongings into plastic bags. She doesn't ask why the clothing he gathers up is wet, or why, after Dean threads Castiel's feet through the jeans and hoists them up, he doesn't seem to have any other clothes.

"Up you go." Dean pulls the angel upright. "Can you walk? We better bug out. Sam?"

"Coming." His brother exits the bathroom, sending a shame-faced glance at Onnie. "Sorry about the mess."

"Charge the repairs to my card," Dean says absently. "Cas? You okay?"

His eyes are out of focus again, and he's swaying very slightly in place, making no effort to move his feet. A little leap of fear jolts through Dean. "Cas?"

He blinks, and is suddenly present again. "Dean."

"Yeah." The way he's flipping in and out is starting to freak Dean out. "Try and stay with me. You can sleep in the car. You are falling asleep, right?"

Castiel's brow crinkles in confusion, and when he tilts his head, it throws him off balance enough that Dean has to reel him back before he crumples down to the edge of the bed. "Nope, nope, stand up. Gimme your arm, Cas. Arm. Around my waist and hang on. We're walking to the door, okay?"

"Take the blanket," Onnie interrupts. "For pity's sake, you need to keep that boy warm. Where are his shoes?"

"Long story." Dean bends sideways to snag the blanket from the bed, still holding Castiel by the elbow, and drapes the worn cotton around the angel's shoulders. "Thanks, Onnie."

"It's just a blanket." She watches while Dean gets his arm tight around Castiel, urges him into motion. The slight weight of the blanket is still enough to knock his balance out again, and he jams to a confused halt after he stumbles into the end of the other bed. "The guy in Three is in decent shape, knows how to keep his mouth shut. You want I should get him?"

"Thanks, but we're good." Dean's got them arranged now, arm—shoulders, arm—waist, handful of beltloop, and is steering the angel steadily towards the door. "Nice and easy, one foot in front of the other. You're doing fine for a guy who flies everywhere."

Onnie sidles out of the way, lurching down off the step with a grunt and throwing another worried look down the road toward town. Castiel jams to a halt again, twisting away from the morning light streaming through the door.

"C'mon, Cas. Close your eyes if it's too bright. We gotta keep moving."

"It is." He closes his eyes, ducks his head away from the thin sunlight. "I don't understand—it should not be."

"You're just wiped out still. Little more rest and you'll be fine. Here's the car—climb in."

Castiel slits open his eyes just enough to navigate the door, the tilted-forward seatback. Once he's jolted into the corner of the seat, hard, Dean's hand shooting out to keep the back of his shoulder from slamming the edge of the door, he squints up with distress plain on his face. "I _don't_ understand. I cannot reach it."

"Reach what?" Dean crouches down, yanks the blanket free from its tangle around Castiel's legs and the seat. "Your healing mojo?"

"The healing, my Grace, any of it. Dean… " And the distress is wiped over with raw fear. "I cannot feel my _wings_."

_Jesus._ Dean's stomach flips, and he has to lean away in a pretense of tucking the blanket around the angel to hide the instinctive flash of fear on his own face.

It's wrong. Too wrong to think about, too wrong to see, fear like that on the face of an angel.

"It's probably just temporary," Dean says roughly, impatiently, because _shit_, of _course_ it has to be temporary, why get all knotted up over a short-term inconvenience, right? "All that demon blood probably shocked your system so hard it needs time to reboot."

"Dean." Sam dumps the bags into the footwell and throws himself into the front. "We should go."

"Yeah, yeah." His hand hovers, finally comes down in an awkward pat on Castiel's shoulder that he means to be reassuring. "Look, don't freak out yet, okay? Try to rest—you'll be fine."

Castiel studies him searchingly for a second. And then he nods, and his expression blanks out again. He tips his head back, drawing the blanket up and settling it and his arm across his eyes.

_Shit._ Dean swallows hard and backs out of the car. The manager's pulling the motel room door closed, and Dean pauses, catches her eye. "Onnie? Thanks."

She waves him off with one soft hand. "Get out of here. Just take care of yourselves."

Once they're on the road, Sam bends down and rummages through the bag at his feet until he comes up with a couple of powerbars. He offers one to Dean but gets a headshake in return. "Where're we going?" Sam asks around a mouthful of granola, and _holy shit_, Sam's eating something. Voluntarily.

_See? Miracles_, Dean tells himself. He bends to check the road behind them in the mirror, flicks a glance at the back seat and then ahead again, and bears down on the accelerator. "Out of town. Supply run. New wheels."

"Bobby's?"

"I'm thinking no. That sonuvabitch Zach has to know we'd head there if we could. Long as you're doing better, I think we better stay away." They're coming up on the on-ramp to the interstate, and Dean bends again to scan up and down the highway for patrol cars. "In fact, I think we need to get off the grid completely."

* * *

At a high school two exits down the interstate, Dean hot-wires an Equinox out of the teacher's parking lot and drives it back to the side street where he'd left Sam and Castiel. They're waiting with the Chevelle, Sam leaning on the front fender and fooling with his phone, Castiel sitting sideways in Sam's usual spot in the front, bare feet on the curb, blanket still wrapped tight around his hunched shoulders.

Dean pulls up behind them and shoots a sharp glance at Sam as he climbs out of the SUV. "Zachariah probably knows your number from when I called from the green room."

"I know; I'm copying what I want saved so I can ditch this." He gives the new car an incredulous look. "You boosted an SUV?"

Dean shrugs. "If I can't rustle up some cash, we're gonna be sleeping in it. This is big enough to stretch out in." He crouches by the angel. "Hey."

Any hope that Castiel might be feeling better is dashed when he drags his head up. Dean winces at the blankness settled deeply into his face.

"We're gonna switch cars, okay?"

It takes a second or two to process before he nods. When he pushes to his feet, he sways for a second before taking a few halting steps toward the SUV. He stops and frowns. "Water. I will need water."

"Water? Oh, for the protection thingy. Sam, do we have water?"

"In one of the bags." Sam's voice is muffled as he ducks into the old Chevelle, wiping prints. "It's just tap water from the motel."

"That's fine." Dean digs out the bottle and brings it back to Castiel. "How much do you need?"

"Just to coat the roof." Castiel shrugs so the blanket slides down his back, pooling onto the ground behind him. He lifts his left arm toward the top of the car, stops, rises on tiptoe and stops again. "I cannot reach."

"Hold on." Dean opens the back door. "Like this." He steps up into the car, one hand gripping the edge of the roof, and pours out a puddle of water before stepping back down. "I'll give you a hand up."

With Dean bracing him, Castiel steps up, stretches across the roof. He murmurs soft words, and Dean feels the shift of his muscles as he swirls the water around on the metal.

And then he goes extremely still.

Dean raises his head, a frown already forming, his questioning 'What's wrong?' cut off when Castiel says the words again, sweeps his arm in another circle.

And freezes again.

He's poised on the SUV's running board, arm frozen in the act of reaching over the roof, his hip braced against Dean's shoulder. He's so tense Dean can feel tremors running down his body, and then he shudders and steps back abruptly, jolting down onto the ground.

And when he turns and faces Dean, his expression is bleak. "It doesn't work."

Dean's eyes widen in alarm. "The symbol?"

Castiel shakes his head. "My… touch, I suppose. To purify the water so the words will bless it." He meets Dean's gaze, and there's a bitter lostness, in his eyes, in the twist of his mouth. "I am no longer holy, it seems."

"Bullshit! You're an angel!" Dean blurts.

"Perhaps not. The healing is not working, I still cannot feel my wings, I no longer hear Jimmy's voice." Castiel's gaze slides away, and he tips back against the car, looking exhausted. "The demon blood did not kill me, but it left me damaged."

"Temporarily," Dean insists. "It's only been a few hours! That was some strong shit, you can't expect to get over it right away." He takes Castiel's arm, tugs him to the door. "Get in. I'll do the symbol. You rest, give it a chance to wear off." Sam's beside them now, his hands full of plastic bags, and Dean throws a slightly crazed look at his brother. "Right, Sam?"

"Um, sure. I mean, yeah, sure, it'll wear off." Sam shrugs with an uncomfortable roll of his shoulders. "It has to, right?"

"Thanks, Sam, you sound real reassuring," Dean says flatly. He strips rustling plastic handles out of Sam's grasp and pitches the bags behind the driver's seat. "Get in, Cas. You're going to be fine. Look at Sam—he had a rough few days, but no more withdrawal. He got through it and you will, too. Here—wrap up and lean back."

Quietly, Castiel climbs into the back seat, settling down with a listless side-to-side motion and pulling the blanket around himself.

An hour down the highway, Dean has to pull over to let Sam throw up powerbars onto the side of the road.

* * *

At a Wal-Mart at the edge of town, before they hit the highway, Dean nearly maxes out the lone credit card in his wallet. At the gas station next door, he snaps it into pieces that he tosses away after making a final purchase. The SUV's tank was nearly full, but he topped it off, and then filled his two newly-purchased gas cans before stowing them in the back.

"Sit up, Cas—got you coffee." Dean hands a cardboard cup through the door. "Well, coffee-flavored milk, but you gotta start somewhere. Okay, see this? It's a cup holder. It's for…"

"Holding the cup when I am not?" Castiel says dryly, and Dean manages a grin at his tone.

"Exactly. Keeps it from spilling. Now, this you're just gonna have to hold until you've eaten it. It's a sweet roll—girl at the counter said the glaze is honey, okay? How's your shoulder?"

"Painful."

Dean winces. "How bad on the ten-scale?"

"I do not understand."

"A scale of one to ten, one being that punch I threw in the Green Room, ten being a needle full of holy water boiling you from the inside out."

Castiel lowers his handful of pastry to his lap and regards Dean with that calm steadiness that seems to pierce clear through him. "You must stop blaming yourself for that. It is pointless."

He sighs, looks away. "How bad?"

For a minute it looks like Castiel's going to just as stubbornly avoid answering. Finally, while he studiously juggles coffee cup and pastry, he responds without looking up from his lap. "Seven."

"Shit. Sam…?"

"I did lift some Percocet from the pharmacy. But are you sure a drugged angel is a good idea?"

"I think it's a _bad _idea. But I don't know what else to do."

"You don't need to do anything," Castiel breaks in firmly. "It is endurable. I don't wish to be drugged."

Dean watches him blink through a long swallow of milky coffee and then set the cup aside so he can peel at the layers of glazed roll, as if breakfast is the only thing on his mind. He clearly considers the discussion closed. Dean grimaces. "Okay. But if it gets worse, you tell me."

He dials his cell while he pulls back out onto the road. "Bobby? Hey. Yeah, we're okay. Cas too. No, really. We need to lay low for a while, though. Any chance you could bring the car to that place where we tangled with the banshee that time? That'd be great. Yeah, just leave her and go, we better not meet up. I'll call you later, once I get new phones. Okay, thanks. I owe you one."

Dean snaps his phone closed and tosses it into Sam's lap. "Take it apart for me, will you?" He shakes his head. "Damn, I'm gonna miss those pictures of you being a dumbass." The huffy snort he gets in response is totally worth it.

Sam's better – Cas will be soon – Dean'll have his Baby and his gear back soon.

They'll go dark and work out a plan and it'll be awesome.

He's damn convincing when he wants to be.

And it's not long after that, just another sixty minutes down the interstate, when Sam needs him to pull over so he can throw up.

When he finally drags himself back into the seat, his hands tremble so hard he ends up jamming them tight beneath his armpits, and he can't, or won't, look at his brother.

Dean sneaks a glance at the mirror. Castiel is leaning against the back door, and he's not looking at Dean either. The blankness has vanished, and so has the stubbornness. Instead, he looks wrecked, utterly devastated by the proof of just how strong demon blood really is.

* * *

In some nameless town, Dean pulls in at a roadside tavern, neon-lit, lot crowded despite the late hour. Lightning is flickering somewhere below the dark horizon, but the streetlamps shine steadily and it smells like rain; it's just a spring storm, not restless demons.

"You stay in the car," Dean says, a thread of authority underscoring the quiet command, and Castiel presses his lips together and looks away, but he nods and sinks back, tugging idly at his sleeves. When they'd stopped for a midday break, he'd winced his way into the shirt Dean passed him, and at some point during the long afternoon, he'd worked out the intricacies of lacing up the boots Dean had bought him.

Dean still doesn't want a guy looking as shell-shocked as Cas inside the bar.

"We'll be out as soon as we make some cash."

Dean doesn't particularly want Sam in the bar, either; he's pale, and shaky, and he looks like an easy mark; but he's insisting that's the perfect cover—he looks wasted already, why not put it to good use. Dean should say no, dammit. There's no way Sam can kick ass if things go south, but they need the cash.

So here's Sam slinging an arm around Dean's shoulders with a loud, sloppy laugh as they push through the doorway, and there's Sam noisily clipping a chair with one hip on his way to a table. He waves for beer, and comments loudly on Dean's frown, and once the bottles are delivered he lurches back to his feet and weaves off to watch the pool game in a back alcove swirling with smoke.

It's sobering to see how adept at deception Sam is. Dean watches with hooded eyes, pulling slowly at his beer, while Sam insinuates himself with the regulars, easily letting them gather that he's a college boy with more money than sense, being escorted home for the summer by his pain-in-the-ass big brother.

A fifty on the edge of the table gets him into the next game, which he loses dismally and cheerfully. Another fifty – their last, but the others don't need to know that – loses him the next game as well, and Dean comes over, playing guardian, tries to pry him away.

Sam shakes him off, straight-arms Dean with what might be a little too authentic force, and the regulars laugh and close ranks around their buzzed new best friend, drawing him back for another game.

And that's when Sam starts winning.

He pretty much steamrolls them. Dean would've finessed it a little, won a couple to have some cash to throw around, lost a couple more to keep them going, keep them off-balance and impatient to regain the upper hand. But Sam just wants it done and over with, and the regulars get surly way too soon.

Dean elbows his way in between cues and scuffling boots, scoops up bills, and shoves Sam at the door. They don't exactly get chased out to the parking lot, but curses follow them until the door slaps shut on their heels.

It doesn't matter, because Dean's got a decent roll of cash clenched in one fist.

Sam's buzzing with adrenaline and beer on a wrung-empty stomach. He bumps Dean aside to leap for the driver's side, swinging around once he flings open the door for the expected argument.

It doesn't come. Dean waves him on, pulls open the passenger door. "Wake me when you're ready to switch or if you start crashing again. I'm gonna catch a few hours sleep."

* * *

The SUV bumps slowly down the overgrown lane, branches flicking its sides. The sun's slanting in just above the treeline on the western side of the small Wisconsin lake, and Dean doesn't have to check to know that Castiel has slid low in the back seat, blanket-draped arm pressed over his eyes.

Photosensitivity, Sam had called it, when they'd stopped for lunch and Cas wouldn't get out of the car, just shook his head and flinched away when Dean had tried to pull at the blanket. He'd just wanted to know if it was getting worse, because hell, an angel who can't tolerate light? That's just all kinds of wrong.

Screw Zachariah and his filthy soul-splitting spells. He's going to kill him.

The right front wheel dips into a particularly deep pothole, and Sam's head clonking solidly against the window breaks Dean's train of thought. His brother jolts awake, arms flailing. "Ow! _Damn_ it, Dean!"

Dean slides a sideways glance at him. "Would you rather have hiked in?"

"Hiked? Where are we?" Sam shoves his seat forward, cursing as the SUV hits another pothole and his elbow cracks on the door. "_Ow_."

"North shore of Lake Fucking Banshee. It coming back to you now?"

"Oh." The lane opens out onto a clearing. A distressingly familiar one-room shack in the center tilts toward the reed-choked shoreline. "Yeah. That water was_ cold_."

"It's probably not much warmer now, so try not to trip over your own feet and fall in again." Dean's jibe is half-hearted, his attention already on the lean-to tacked onto the back of the cabin.

_There she is._ Dean's out of the stolen car and at the lean-to before the SUV even finishes coasting to a stop. He trails his palm across the Impala's trunk and up the side, and his world rights itself a degree on its axis. "Hey, Baby."

The lean-to's so narrow he can barely get the door open wide enough to squeeze in. He settles in the seat with relief so sharp he has to close his eyes for a moment before he can bend forward, fingers skating beneath the floor mat for the keys.

When he backs out, Sam's watching, leaning on the SUV with his arms folded and wearing an expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "You feel better now?"

"Much." Dean shifts side-to-side just to hear the familiar creak of leather. He runs his hands around the wheel, fingers bumping along the fingergrips, and he doesn't even feel like cuffing Sam upside the head for his epic eye-rolling.

Castiel drags his arm off his eyes when Dean opens the back door, his head rolling lethargically to meet the other's eyes. "Your car?" he asks in a ragged voice.

Dean nods. "My car. With a trunk full of weapons, salt, protections. We'll be just that much safer with her, believe me." He taps the side of Castiel's knee. "Swing your legs out."

He can't. Dean pretends not to notice; he just makes himself busy leaning in, draping Castiel's arm around his neck, hitching him forward on the seat. One-handed, he reaches down and knocks Castiel's knees so his feet flop out of the car, and then Dean heaves them both backwards.

Castiel's legs go out from under him the second his weight shifts from car seat to boots. Dean has to scramble to keep him from crumpling completely, pushing up with his shoulder beneath Castiel's arm. Once he's braced on the car, Dean shakes his head, panting a little.

"Dude, c'mon. Little help here."

"Sorry. I cannot reach—it's too far away."

"What's too far? The ground? You're standing on it," Dean says, a thread of uneasiness uncurling in his stomach.

"The distance." Castiel tips his head back to look up at Dean, and his head keeps right on tipping until it comes to rest with a light _thunk_ on the car. His eyes slide out of focus and his throat hitches as he tries to swallow. "How do you manage, so far removed?"

"Okay, Cas? What are you talking about?" _Uneasy_ has shot straight past _worried_ to _freaked out_. Dean dips his head, trying to catch and hold the gaze that's sliding hazily all over the place. Castiel grimaces and twists aside, eyes squeezing shut. "Cas?"

"In between. When you step over the chasm…"

"_Jesus_." Dean seizes his arms, gives the angel a sharp shake. "Stop. Whatever you're doing, _stop_. You're not making any sense and…" _And you're scaring the crap outta me_, he doesn't add. "Are you even awake?"

His eyelids drag open and Dean huffs out a relieved breath, because _Hello_, the lights are on again and somebody's home. "Dean?"

"Yup. You wanna stay grounded here, Cas? We're switching cars again."

"Oh. All right," he says, completely agreeable, and Dean has to bite back a bubble of hysterical laughter.

Yeah, he _really_ doesn't like how Cas is flipping in and out like this.

Somehow they make it over to the Impala; Dean sits Castiel down sideways in the back seat, makes sure he's propped against the doorframe, and pulls his shirt up his back and off his shoulder. Sam comes around to hover behind Dean and stretches one foot out to nudge at his boot.

"I thought you were in a hurry."

"I was until he went all incoherent on me. Bring me the med kit from the trunk."

Dean peels up adhesive tape and bandages, afraid of what he's going to find. Seeping black blood, infection, hell, maybe freaky angel light streaming from the sword wound.

But it's just a raw, penetrating gash. Serious, and pretty damned agonizing to judge by the way Cas' face goes pale and his split, swollen lips thin out when Dean's fingers brush the injury.

But nothing particularly otherworldly.

Dean lays his palm flat against the cut, startling an involuntary flinch from the angel. "Sorry. Checking for heat. For infection." And Castiel jerks a nod, cut short by a sharp intake of breath as Dean presses on the exit wound. "Feels okay. How bad's the pain?"

Castiel's eyes flick to the side for a split second and then back again. "Improving."

"Bullshit." Flatly, Dean holds his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

There's a long pause before he relents. "Eight," the angel mutters.

"Getting worse, then. You ready for a Percocet?"

"No. Too dangerous."

"Okay." To be honest, after that gibberish earlier, Dean doesn't really want a drugged-up Cas, especially if he starts babbling about chasms again. He digs through the med kit for antiseptic and fresh gauze. "I'm sorry I can't do more."

The angel's tense expression softens. "Dean. You kept me from dying. What you've done is miraculous."

"What I did was…"

"_Hey_." From behind him, Sam gives Dean's boot a sharp kick. "Knock it off with the guilt tripping. Patch him up and let's get on the road before the killer mosquitoes come out."

It sounds so ordinary, so normal-Sam-bitching, that Dean actually relaxes a little. He's got his hands full with an injured angel and a demon-detoxing brother, not to mention vengeful angels and a looming apocalypse, and all he wants right now is to drive his own car to a decent room for the night.

But Sam's still his brother, and Cas isn't dead, and he'll worry about the rest later.

* * *

He's not even sure what state they ended up in. All Dean knows is that right around the time his eyes were getting too blurred and scratchy to tell the difference between oncoming headlights and reflections on the road signs, Sam started squirming and scratching at his arms and mumbling about his skin crawling. They hadn't even been on the road all that long, but when Dean turned back to the road after the fifth worried glance over at Sam, they were coming up to an exit with a sign for a motor court.

It's a row of tidy, attached cabins, set off the highway on an auxiliary road behind a broad swath of trees, and the spot-lit sign is painted with a large silhouetted bird touching down in a tree, and the words "The Owl's Nest".

Owls, doves, whatever.

If that's not a sign Dean should stop here for the night, he doesn't know what is.

* * *

Sometimes a room that seemed decent in the dark, at the tail end of a punishing drive, turns out to be anything but in the harsh light of morning. Shadows hide built-up grime in crevices, and exhaustion blurs stains into patterns on bedspreads and carpet, only for the squalor to be revealed upon awakening. Dean's lost count of how many times he lay searching for pictures in the water stains on a ceiling or symbolic meaning in the cracks down a wall, while he worked his way to full wakefulness or waited for Sam to settle down and fall asleep. Hell, they used to make a game of it, back when they were little. Back when they were three in a room.

And here they are, three again, and who would have guessed that would come to pass? Dean rolls his neck on the pillow bunched against the arm of the small couch, dropping his hand over the side to brush the sawed-off resting on the floor within easy reach. He's got a knife beneath the pillow and another gun on the end table where his feet are dangling over the other arm of the couch, salt lines at the windows and door, and a bandage on his arm where he sliced it back open for a blood symbol for the door.

It feels like he's prepared for a siege, and maybe that's what he's doing—barricading them behind wards while he waits out the demon blood's next trick.

The running is wearing them all down, too; they need a few days rest, a few days in sanctuary.

At least this room is as clean in daylight as darkness made it appear. "Sanctuary" isn't all that attractive as a refuge if it's steeped in filth and vermin.

Dean raises his head just enough to look over at the two beds and their occupants. Castiel, as far as he can tell, hasn't moved in the slightest since Dean dragged him inside and he crashed onto the mattress. For a guy who claims not to need rest, he sure sleeps _hard_.

Sam, on the other hand, clearly spent a restless night. His pillow's on the floor. The blankets are twisted around his legs like he'd been running in his sleep. His head's bent back at an uncomfortable angle as if he'd fallen asleep in the midst of tossing and turning—which, from the hours of thrashing that kept jerking Dean awake all night, he probably had.

Long, red scratches mark Sam's outflung arms, but at least he finally stopped scratching. If he starts up with the 'My skin is crawling' crap again, Dean's going to duct tape oven mitts onto his hands.

Slowly, wincing at the angry pull of his back, Dean swings his feet to the floor and folds forward, stretching tight muscles. While he's bent down, he palms the shotgun, tucking it comfortably in the crook of his elbow. His duffel bag is beneath the end table, and it's a relief to be able to pull out his own clothes, to shift aside his own Glock for his own shaving kit beneath it.

Showered, shaved, dressed in clothes worn to familiar softness, Dean stands at the table and tucks weapons into his pockets and belt. Behind him, Sam groans in his sleep, kicks at the sheets. Even as Dean turns, he jackknifes upright with a huge gasp, his eyes bugging wide.

"Sam?"

His brother knuckles his chest, breathing hard. "Nightmare. M'okay. Time is it?"

"Early. There's a market down the road; gonna walk down and pick up some food. Go back to sleep."

"Yeah." Sam shoves his fingers through his hair. "Sure, I'll just roll over and go back to sleep. No problem."

Dean ignores his cutting tone and slides a blade into his boot, tugging his jeans down over it. "That's my boy. You feel like anything in particular for breakfast?"

"Quit bugging me about eating, Dean!" Sam throws himself flat, just missing cracking his skull on the headboard.

"I was just asking. I'll leave you the shotgun, okay?"

A couple of kids scramble out the office door and past him when Dean crosses the parking lot, heading for the small playground in the field flanking the motel. The door thumps open a second time, and the woman who checked Dean in the night before comes out, dragging a cart loaded with used linens down over the threshold. "Casey, you watch your sister!"

"I _will_!" the older of the two yells without slowing, intent on racing her younger sister to the swings. Their mother tucks light brown curls beneath her bandanna and tugs the linen cart into motion again, offering Dean a tired smile as she wheels it past him.

It's an easy walk to the market. The sun's already warm on Dean's shoulders, and he kicks at the gravel, keeping a few pebbles rolling ahead of him until they skitter off into the ditch. It's quiet, the highway noise muffled by the line of trees between it and the side road. It would be almost peaceful if he didn't have those two back in the motel to worry about.

A bell over the door jangles when Dean pushes it open. Two people – manager and cashier – look up in tandem, and then go back to the radio they've propped against the window. Static is crackling loudly, nearly obscuring a newscaster's voice, and the younger man shakes his head.

"This is as clear as I can get it without an antenna."

"Well, I don't have an antenna."

"Then it's not gonna come in any clearer."

"Are you sure? Let me try."

Dean leaves them to their hushed bickering and cruises the aisles, scooping up basics to cobble together a few meals—bread, cereal, milk, cans of soup. Sammy'll eat pasta usually, and turkey sandwiches, and there's still coffee left from the first shopping trip, all the way back in Amish country, even though that seems like a decade ago.

He dumps his purchases on the lone checkout counter and the cashier turns reluctantly from the hissing radio. The older guy takes the opportunity to fiddle with the radio, tilting it back and forth on the window ledge in an attempt to reach a clearer signal.

"Something going on?" Dean asks.

"You haven't heard?" The kid pauses in ringing up the prices. "There was an earthquake epi-centered in the Ohio River. Bridges and shit collapsed, there's flooding all over—it's a real mess."

"An earthquake? That far east?" Dean's stomach takes a nosedive.

The cashier nods. "I mean, yeah, it's not unheard of—just nothing like the West Coast. But this was a big one, they're saying…"

"Seven on the Richter scale, maybe eight!" the manager puts in.

"Yeah, seven or eight, with no warning tremors at all before it broke loose. Right at rush hour, too. It's kinda freaky." He shoves Dean's groceries into a bag, his attention already back on the radio.

"It's probably aliens," the manager says absently. "Those lights in the sky last week were a sign. Natural disasters are how they soften us up for the coming invasion." The newscaster's voice dissolves in a burst of static, and he frowns and twirls the tuning knob.

"Ohh-kay then." Dean can't tell if the guy's joking or not, but really? Aliens are probably more believable to the average citizen than freakin' _Lucifer_ walking the earth. He holds out his hand for his change, impatient to be out of there already.

The kids are still playing outside when he gets back to the motel, slightly out of breath from hurrying. Dean bites back the sudden urge to order them inside with their mom. They've abandoned the swings for the edge of the parking lot; the younger girl is hopping through a complex grid chalked onto the pavement, while the older one sits cross-legged nearby, a sketchpad in her lap. The littler one jumps from space to space, plastic sandals slapping sharply each time she lands. Her sister glances up from her pad and pencil from time to time and then back down again, a frown of concentration on her face.

Sam's already got the TV on, and it's showing scenes of surging water choked with debris, bridges dangling in a mess of twisted cables and girders, heaps of rubble that used to be riverside towns. Sam startles when Dean comes in, and his face is drained pale. "You should see this," he says in a hollow voice. "I think it's starting."

Dean lets the grocery bag slide from his arms and drops onto the edge of the bed beside his brother. They watch the front of an apartment building sheer off in a rumbling avalanche and a helicopter lowering a rescue net to someone clinging to a tree surrounded by deep brown water. "_Damn_ it."

Sam nods. "There was something about the worst Red Tide ever recorded appearing overnight all down the Eastern Seaboard too, but the earthquake's kind of overshadowed that."

"Red Tide? Isn't that algae?"

"Poisonous algae, but yeah. People are having serious respiratory problems, and there are some pretty massive fish kills washing in."

"But _algae_?" Dean repeats, his voice high with disbelief.

There's a rustle of blankets behind them. "Waters running red is one of the signs of the Apocalypse," Castiel says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Peachy." Dean swings around. "The ground's shaking apart, the ocean's turned blood-red; guess we should expect fire from the sky next, huh?"

"Possibly." Castiel has gotten the blankets untangled and is pushing to his feet, one hand shooting out to catch himself on the wall. There's a pinched, grey look to his face, and his hair's doing that standing-on-end thing that makes Dean think he needs to introduce the guy to a comb one of these days. "Meteors have long been interpreted as harbingers of doom."

"Aren't you the cheerful one." Dean comes around and grabs the angel's elbow, because he's shaking, even with his hand braced above the headboard. "Where are you going?"

"I... am not sure." He casts a vaguely troubled look around the room. "I think I should be..."

Dean frowns when his voice trails off. "Should be what? Going somewhere? We're stopping here for a few days, Cas. You can relax."

He shakes his head. "Should be... doing something. I thought I heard something..."

"Yeah?" Dean steers him out from between the beds and across the room to the dinette table, because Sam's craning forward and glaring at the TV in a not-so-subtle hint that he's trying to listen. "What'd it sound like?"

"Echoes." Castiel looks up suddenly as Dean guides him into one of the chairs beside the table, his eyes too bright and boring into Dean's. "The wrong kind."

_Goddammit._ Dean leans forward, laying his palm on the other's forehead. "You're not running a fever. What's with the crazy talk?"

Castiel wrenches from beneath Dean's hand. "The _door_," he insists, fingers cinching Dean's wrist and giving it an impatient jiggle. "When it splits asunder and then is caused to close. _That_ sound."

"Okay." Dean's at a loss, but whatever the hell Cas is talking about seems vitally important to him. "Can you still hear it? No? Well then, tell me when you hear it again, okay? and I'll try and track it down." He gently extracts his wrist from the angel's crushing grip and lays his arm on the table. "Maybe you're dehydrated. I'll get you a drink. Not coffee—I'm thinkin' you better stick with water for now."

Castiel sinks back, mouth tight, and looks away. Dean starts toward the cupboard, but hesitates and veers off to the door instead, swinging it wide.

Nothing looks out of place. Sun's still shining in a blue, blue sky, traffic's still humming in the distance. A squirrel shoots across the parking lot and up a tree. The kids are still settled on the edge of the pavement, the littler one singing softly, "O-lo-lay, O-lo-lay-la" as she hop-skips across her chalked lines, messy brown curls, so like Sam's at her age, bouncing in the sunlight. The older sister's face is hidden behind lighter brown hair, her pencil racing across the paper.

Dean turns away, extracts a cereal box from the bag propped on the doorframe, and wings it at Sam. "Think fast, bitch."

"Hey!"

"What? You love Apple Jacks. In fact, you love..."

"Don't start with 'jack' jokes in front of an angel, jerk."

Dean snorts, reaching for the bag. Sharp movement catches the corner of his eye; he glances up in time to see the older girl leap up and lunge suddenly at her little sister. Frowning, he steps back into the doorway just as she gives the smaller girl a violent, two-handed shove that sends her staggering back toward the motel.

_The hell? Where'd that come from?_

A clatter behind him yanks Dean's attention off the kids. Castiel has leapt to his feet, sending his chair crashing against the stove. One hand is clenched on his forehead. He slams full into the table as if he doesn't even see it, then drops his hand to sweep it out of his path.

"_It caught her_."

Something skims through the open door past Dean's legs, spinning through the salt line, pages fluttering. As the sketchpad disappears beneath the nearer bed, Dean's rocked by an impact like a wrecking ball on his back. Sharp fingers rake his neck, and he stumbles into the couch.

For a second he thinks it's one of those trackers, an ifrin. Thin, wiry legs wrap around his hips, and he reaches back and gets a handful not of slick, oily skin but thin cotton blouse. Sam's yelling and the kid, the older sister, is clawing his neck and giggling in a disturbingly deep voice. He twists his fist and yanks.

Cloth tears, but the kid's still adhered. Her hair stings the side of his face as she darts bared teeth at him.

Sam gets her around the stomach and rips her free; her teeth clack together a scant millimeter from Dean's ear. As Sam slings her around, she twists loose of his grasp, landing in a tense crouch on the sofa cushions.

Dean's not all that surprised to see her eyes are a solid, glossy black.

_Fuck._ A kid. It possessed a little kid, no more than ten years old.

"The knife, where's the knife? Dean, dammit, where'd you put the _knife?_"

He's not stabbing a ten-year-old kid, a kid brave enough to knock her little sister out of the line of fire, he's _not_.

He shoves Sam behind him, steps toward the kid with hands outspread. She shrieks out a laugh at him, glittering black eyes sweeping past him and around the room to settle on...

_Fuck._

The kid bounces once on the cushions and springs. She rockets into Castiel, feet smacking his thighs, hands locking onto his shoulders. The impact knocks him back into the edge of the table.

"Oh, look what I got, little broken bird, mine to play with, all mine," she – it, it's a _thing_ talking – sing-songs with harsh glee. The demon rolls the kid's shoulder and there's a wet ripping sound and Dean's heart is trying to crawl up his throat because he's not going to get there in time.

Castiel makes a shocked, pained noise. Then he sweeps his arms up, and out, and the kid's body falls away and drops to the floor.

The angel stoops swiftly, clapping the heel of his hand to her forehead. For a second her face freezes in a mask of fear, and he bears down, pinning her head to the floor.

Her face clears. She surges up against his hand, a smirk too vicious for such a young face plastered across her features when the brilliant Grace light never appears. Her own hand shoots out. Her fingers punch through Castiel's thin shirt and twist with casual strength. His eyes go wide and he falls backward out of his crouch, landing hard on the floor. She follows, fingers sunk past the knuckles in the center of a starburst of blood while he claws at her slender wrist.

"Broken, aren't you all broken up!" she laughs, and he's borne back, and down, pinioned by the twisting, gouging fingers.

Dean gets hold of her then, tearing at the slight body. She whips around and a surge of power throws him off her. Crimson drops fly from her fingertips as she flings out her hand and slams him to the floor.

Sam's sidling in to flank her, but she simply twirls and pushes him back. She cocks her head when the current hits him. "What are you? Not like him, broken upstairs thing. But not like _him_, either," and she flicks her bloodied hand at his brother. Her dark eyes grow bright with avid curiosity and her head darts forward, snake-like, while she studies Sam.

"What do you think I am? How am I different?" he asks desperately, and she takes a step toward him.

Castiel seizes on the demon's momentary distraction, rising behind her in a silent rush. He wraps both arms around her, squeezing tight despite the damage to his shoulder. She jerks in surprise; her back arches, throwing both of them backwards.

And Castiel goes with her, lets momentum carry them back so they crash onto the tabletop. She twists as soon as they land, arm drawing back and aiming straight at the hole torn through him.

He slides out beneath her before she can strike, rolling right off the edge of the table. He lands on the balls of his feet, hand touching down for balance, but continues down helplessly until he ends up sprawled flat. From where he's lying, he can see the devil's trap drawn on the underside of the table.

"Cas? Shit, Cas, are you okay? You're not, are you?"

Dean's beside him, hauling him back, hands beneath his arms and dragging him out of range of the dinette. It's rattling, the whole thing starting to vibrate under the scorching anger of the demon trapped atop it.

"Cas, for fuck's sake…"

"Get rid of the demon," he rasps, pushing hard at Dean's hands. "Get it _out_ of her, she's so young, it will break her mind."

Sam's already on his feet, Latin already spilling from his mouth. It doesn't beg, or scream, or bargain—it just glares up at him with simmering rage, a feral snarl twisting the child's face.

"Casey? _Casey!_"

The shriek comes from the open door. The girls' mother is framed there, eyes wide with terror. She pries her younger daughter's hands off her waist and charges forward. "_Get away from my daughter!_"

Castiel heaves at Dean, and he finds himself propelled up, across the room, catching the woman just before she body slams Sam. Another agonized shriek tears from her throat as Dean drags her back. Her hands sweep down, just missing her daughter.

"We're not hurting her, I swear! We're trying to help!"

She's got a mean left hook. Strong, sharp elbow, too, and a heavy stomp that rakes his calf even though she's only wearing sneakers. Dean hops back and nearly trips over the littler kid.

"_Get away from her or I swear to God I'll kill you!_"

"She's in trouble! We're trying to help her!"

"Mom?"

The smaller girl's wavering voice somehow cuts through the shouting, and she tugs at the back of her mother's sweatshirt. "Mom, what's wrong with Casey's eyes?"

The woman stills in Dean's grasp. Sam's still reeling off Latin in a low, passionate recitation, and the thing on the table is making the child tremble with rage, jaw clenched, eyes huge and shining and very, very black.

"Oh my god, what did you do to her?" the woman whispers.

"I swear, we didn't do it. We're trying to _un-do_ it," Dean insists. Cautiously he eases his hold on her, and she twists roughly, reaching to gather in the younger girl.

"Penny, come here. Get behind me. Did you _drug_ her? I can't believe I let you into my place, you fucking _freak_."

Sam flinches, but continues the rite without pause. The demon's stoicism is starting to crack; the girl's body writhes, and a low growl rumbles past her lips.

"It's not drugs, it's a demon."

She stares at Dean in disbelief. "You're a lunatic. That is my little girl—I will find a way to kill you if it's the last thing I do."

"Lady, I'm telling the truth. I know it sounds beyond insane, but listen to the words—that's holy Latin my brother's speaking. Look – really look – at what it's doing to the thing inside her."

The woman wavers, torn between fleeing with the child clinging to her legs, and staying to try and rescue the one on the table. At the back of the motel room, Castiel shoves himself to his feet, a flood of red all down the front of him to his waist. He sways for a second, nearly crashing over, until he catches the edge of the counter. The woman's eyes go wide and she takes an involuntary step back.

"Look at her hand," Dean says urgently. "You think your little girl could rip into my friend's chest bare-handed on her own? I know how crazy it sounds, but there is an old, powerful _thing_ inside her, and we're trying to get it out."

"It's drugs," the woman whispers, but she sounds as if she's trying to convince herself now. She shakes her head helplessly. "Drugs, that blew out her eyes, made her crazy strong…"

"He is telling the truth," Castiel says, wobbling out from the support of the counter. "It caught her, but Sam will expel it…" He breaks off and reels back against the cabinets, elbow buckling when his arm goes down to catch himself.

"Cas, stay there!" Dean barks. He starts toward the angel, then glances back at the girls' mother. She's frozen in place, but Sam's nearly done, and Dean doesn't want her breaking his concentration. Castiel slides down to the floor, waving Dean off when he makes another abortive motion toward him.

Black smoke bursts out of the girl's mouth, roiling up to the ceiling and flattening against the dingy tiles. Her mother screams, and Dean just barely stops her charging to the table again, holding her while Sam raises his voice for the last few words and the windows rattle in their frames.

"It's gone, it's gone. She's okay now. Stop yelling, it's gone."

Sam scoops up Casey and plops her into her mother's arms; she's limp, and heavy enough that the woman sinks to the floor, rocking and keening, "Oh my god, Casey, oh my god," over and over.

Dean leaves her for the moment and kneels by Castiel's side, pushing at the hand he has clamped over the ragged wound. Red is leaking between his fingers, soaking the bandage still wrapped over the binding symbol and running down to drip off his elbow. "Jesus, _Jesus_, Cas!"

"Dean…"

"Shut up, blasphemy, I know, I just don't give a rat's ass. _Jesus_, Cas!"

His hands scramble frantically, pulling at the shreds of Castiel's shirt, tearing aside cotton and gauze to get at the deep puncture. The demon had dug deep with the girl's fingers, following the blade's path to tear apart skin and muscle and veins all over again.

"Did it hit anything vital, can you tell? Did it get down to a lung? Breathe, okay, lemme see you breathe."

He does, deliberately taking a long, deep breath, and letting it out slowly. "It's fine. Just hand me…" Castiel opens and closes his hand, gesturing for the tangle of wet, red shirt just out of his reach. "I'll hold it. You go to them."

"In a sec." Dean bunches cotton over the torn flesh, pressing tight.

"No, _now_. Get them safe, protected. You must have something against further possession."

His voice is stern, missing the undercurrent of angelic force Dean's heard at times, but uncompromising nonetheless. Dean wipes a shaking hand down his face, unwittingly painting it with a broad streak of red. "Amulets, in the trunk."

"Go. Get them."

Dean goes. Sam's crouched by the woman and her two girls, a tangle of arms and legs and desperate rocking. He's keeping his hands away from them, but he's talking, a low, steady stream of concern mixed with facts, repeated patiently until the woman's capable of hearing him.

The mom's quieted down when Dean returns, one kid burrowed into either side of her. She wipes her eyes with her wrist when he nudges Sam aside and crouches in front of her.

"Was that real? I'm not dreaming this?"

"'Fraid not." Dean extends his hand, the amulets displayed on the flat of his palm so she can see them. "But there are ways to stop it happening again. This is one." He drapes a cord around her neck, and then passes her the other two, motioning that she should place them on the girls. "Don't take them off, _ever_. Not in the shower, not in school, not in bed." He brings out the journal, flips pages to the back. "Do you have a copier or a scanner?"

"Wh-what? Yes. In the office. A copier. Why?"

"I'm going to leave you a copy of this, and a phone number, for a friend of ours. His name's Bobby; you call him, say Dean gave you the number, and tell him you need a tattoo artist in the area. He'll give you someone who'll do the job right."

Dean pulls down the collar of his shirt. "It's a protection symbol-- it really, honestly works. You get this inked on each of you, as soon as possible."

"Even the girls?"

"Especially the girls," Dean says firmly. He drags his collar lower, shifts on his heels so Casey can look at the tattoo, see it clearly. "It'll hurt some to get it, but it'll keep evil sons-of-bitches from stealing your body again, okay?"

"Dean!" Sam offers a mild protest at his language, but Dean ignores him, and Casey nods, one finger stealing out to skim the symbol.

"I hate how it felt. I don't care if the picture hurts," she says fiercely.

"It'll sting, and feel like a bad scrape on your skin, but I already know you're brave." Dean catches her eye. "I saw how you saved your little sister. You did good."

Her mother hugs her convulsively, and Casey manages a tremulous smile.

Dean stands, knees popping. "Sam, take them and put traps on their doors and windows, show 'em how to do it themselves. I'll be along in a minute."

He's drawn inexorably to the back of the room, to the angel slumped there. Castiel's hand has slid limply down to his lap, and the torn shirt has followed, allowing bloodstains to soak into his jeans. He rolls his head up slowly. "Hello, Dean."

Dean stretches up and snags the dishtowel next to the sink. "You're hard on clothes, you know that?"

"S-sorry. Hazard… of the job."

"Did you just make a joke? Shit, Cas, what're you coming to?" His hands are busy, desperately so, doubling the towel, pressing it over the seeping wound, and Castiel arches up in shock, then sinks down and gasps out a short breath, too weak to be a snort.

"Bad… influence." He sighs then, letting his head roll down to his shoulder. "Tired, Dean."

"Tough. You need to stay awake. Hold this. _Hold it_, dammit, while I get another towel."

Dean wheels around and almost clips Casey. She's come up behind him, silently, and she's staring at Castiel with profound seriousness.

"Go with Sam and your mom, okay?"

"I think I did that." She stares at the bloodied figure slumped before her. "I'm sorry. I think I did."

"No, you didn't. The thing that tried to steal you did it. A demon. Not you." Dean starts to put his hand to her shoulder, but it's sticky with blood. He lets it fall.

Casey's looking intently at Castiel. "It was real mad. My stomach still hurts. It was _mad_, because of the way he shines."

"The way he—what?"

"Shines." Reluctantly, the girl tears her gaze away and looks up at Dean. "I can't see it now, but before, when it was looking too, he shined. Silvery. Like…" She stops, gaze drawn back to Castiel. "Just… shined."

"Casey, come _now_," her mother implores from the door, and she shivers, and with one last look retreats from the room, allowing herself to be drawn into the protective curve of her mother's arm.

Dean goes into the bathroom and comes out with a handful of towels, thin and a little threadbare, but blessedly clean. He shifts Castiel's hand, flattened obediently over the dishtowel where Dean said to 'hold', and packs rough cotton into the torn place. Castiel's drifting, hand sliding down, off his lap, head slipping sideways again, and Dean pauses to flick a finger against his cheek.

"Hey. Look here. Open your eyes, flyboy."

Castiel manages to get his eyelids to half-mast. "Not… any longer."

Dean smiles grimly. "Don't be stupid. Outta the mouths of babes, right? She could see you shining—that's got to be some kind of angel thing. So you're grounded for the moment, so what. You haven't stopped being what you are." He twists the largest towel under Castiel's arm and up over his shoulder, tucking the ends tight. "Now suck it up and get on your feet and out to the car. We need to get away from that poor girl before more of those evil sons-of-bitches show up, and you're too damn heavy to carry."

Dean's blunt words knock the hazy lethargy right out of him. Castiel drags his feet close and pushes up, reaching back over his head to haul himself up on the edge of the counter, and then he's standing. He orients on the door and starts toward it.

And he refrains from commenting on the fact that Dean's got one arm around his back and the other crossed over the front of his waist, taking most of his weight, and that he's right with him, every step of the way.

* * *

Thanks for sticking with this. Getting close to the end now, hopefully not too long a gap between chapters this time, as long as muse & real-world life don't cause too much trouble!


	8. We will stand together

See part 1 for disclaimer & notes

So here we are at the end. This chapter really got away from me; it ended up being longer than I anticipated, so I've split it into two parts, followed by the epilogue.

I don't think I could have done this without you all, really. They say to write for yourself, and that if you have a story to tell, just tell it, but honestly, to know it's being read is an incredible rush. I'm amazed and gratified every time I look at the hit tracker. And to everyone who put this on alert and/or favorites, an extra thank you :)

Thank you especially to everyone who took the time to review-- you've given me an incredible gift with all the feedback. I treasure each review and I loved hearing from you. In real life I'm terribly shy and even hiding behind the computer screen it's hard for me to put my writing out in public. Your reviews really do feed my soul! To the people who gave me the head's up on a certain situation - Feathered Filly, L. Eastham, and the reader who asked to remain anonymous - THANK YOU for caring and letting me know what was going on.

Until next time.

Jenn

* * *

The Devil You Know

Part 8

* * *

East will take them towards the ripples beginning to spread outward from Ilchester; west, towards Bobby, and if Dean can keep him from getting caught up in Zachariah's maneuverings, he will.

North leads to Canada, and border crossings are just not something Dean wants to deal with today.

So Sam drives due south.

And yeah, Sam drives, not that Dean's thrilled with that—he just got his Baby back, after all. But it can't be helped.

He's got his hands full in the back seat.

"Lean forward. _Slowly._ You hit that table pretty hard, I need to see if your shoulder's out again. All right, it feels okay; back's not bleeding either. Sit back now. Sit back, Cas."

The little burst of energy that got him out to the car is depleted; each of Castiel's motions are delayed, his reaction time dulled by shock. Dean flattens his hand on the angel's breastbone to keep him from folding right over again, holding him against the seatback while he half-turns to reach the first aid kit spread open on the seat beside him.

"This is going to sting, but I need to clean it out. Don't grab my arms, okay? I don't want to spill the bottle. You want something to bite down on? No? Okay, take a deep breath, hang on to the armrest… I know, I know… It's bad, I know, but you need the antiseptic… Shit. Hang on. Can you take another breath now? Breathe… _Easy on the cornering, Sam! _Jeez. Okay, Cas, almost done. Breathe in, real slow."

Dean leaves him to the monumental task of pushing oxygen in and out of his lungs, just long enough to tear strips of adhesive tape off the roll and tack them within easy reach on the back of the front seat. "Hey. Tip your head back, let me see your eyes. Okay, you're good."

He isn't, really. Castiel's head keeps drifting forward, and then his shoulders follow, peeling away from the seat like he means to pitch head first into the footwell behind Sam's seat. Dean eases him back again and tries to get him propped against the door.

His fingers don't want to stay clenched on the armrest where Dean places them, and Castiel goes sagging forward again. The car's motion isn't helping, the sway of slight dips in the road magnified by Sam's lead foot. Sam keeps flicking glances in the rearview mirror, too, drifting to the right as he does so and then pulling back into his lane with sharp little jerks when he looks back at the road. Dean knows he's panicked, that the demon's words brought back all his fears of being a freak, but he just doesn't have time to talk him past it right now.

Most of Cas' blood is in his _lap_, for christ's sake.

Dean bunches another towel beneath the ragged hole. "This might hurt—I'm going to pinch it closed, tape it tight to hold the edges together," he says. "Ready?" And Castiel dips his head in a tiny nod, so slight as to be unnoticeable to anyone not watching closely. But Dean's watching, and so he starts, spreading his hand wide to draw the torn edges of skin inward with the pads of his fingertips. Castiel stiffens and presses back, presses deep into the seat with a creak of leather; and then he blows out a soft breath, eyes restless beneath heavy lids. A thick bubble of blood squeezes out of the hole torn by the demon and spills over Dean's fingers.

From the front seat comes a harsh sound of protest; Dean glances up in time to catch Sam's gaze in the mirror. "That's seriously _gross_, man. You sure you don't want to suture?"

"Eyes on the road, Sam." Dean positions layers of gauze, edges them with streamers of tape. "I can't stitch something this deep," he mutters, as much in apology to Castiel as explanation to Sam.

"Don't concern yourself about it," Castiel murmurs back. "It is not as bad as it could have been."

"Don't see how." The gauze is already spotted with bright red, and Dean tears open a packet of heavy, plastic-backed dressing.

"It intended to rip free my Grace."

Dean winces, presses down. "You sound pretty sure for a guy who claims his angel powers are gone."

"I…" Castiel blinks. "I could just tell," he says slowly.

"Uh-huh." Tape pulls free of the seatback with little popping sounds. "Probably because all that angel mojo is just blocked, not blasted out of you. Let me see your hand."

The binding symbol is still barely visible beneath the split, blistered skin, but Dean shakes his head. "I dunno about this, Cas—I'm kind of scared it'll pull a sneak comeback. I might still have to burn…"

The Impala hits a pothole with the force of a sledgehammer. Sam bounces high enough to whack his head on the ceiling, but the real impact slams up through the frame from the rear wheel. Dean feels it all the way to the marrow of his bones, the sickening crack of metal smashing roadbed.

"The _hell_, Sam!"

"It didn't look that deep!" Sam yelps, but Dean barely hears him, because Castiel has gone a _strange_ color.

As hard as the jolt was to Dean, it had to be astronomically worse for a guy with a freakin' _hole torn through him_.

He sounds like he's quietly strangling; his eyes are nearly rolled back in his head and his hand flexes helplessly against his lap, blunt nails scratching denim. Dean catches that hand, moves it to the hem of his own shirt, and Castiel's fingers twist in the loose cloth until they turn white.

"Hang on, Cas. Dammit, I'm sorry, I know that hurt. Hang on."

Dean works one hand behind Castiel's neck and squeezes, thumb digging in to the rigid lines of muscle there, a counterpoint to the waves of pain wracking him.

Sam's hunched over the wheel, radiating guilt. Fields whip past, broken by lines of trees and then the high concrete arches of a bridge. Dean rocks the base of the angel's neck, murmuring, "Easy, easy, hang on," while the miles roll past.

Finally Castiel's thin, choked breaths even out; Dean hears him swallow, and he eases his tight grip. "Still with me?"

"That… that…"

"Nearly sent you into orbit, I know. Sam's not gonna do that again; Sam's gonna concentrate on the road and dodge the potholes," Dean says pointedly.

"_Sorry_. I didn't think it was that deep."

"Just watch the road. You'll screw up the suspension." _And the angel_, Dean doesn't add, because that should go without saying. He turns, carefully, so Castiel's fingers aren't dislodged, and digs through the duffels that have tumbled to the floor. Finally he unearths a silver flask.

"Here. I figure a little of this can't do too much damage. Just a little—it's strong."

Castiel's head snaps back as the pungent scent of whiskey hits his nostrils.

"One sip," Dean urges. "It'll take the edge off."

It makes him cough, and that in turn causes him to tighten up with hurt, but after a long moment the tense line of his shoulders relaxes. "Better?" Dean asks.

"Some," Castiel croaks.

"Good. Bend your elbow so I can tie your arm up, keep everything immobilized." Dean pauses. "Cas?"

"Yes." Another of those fleeting delays, and then his gaze jitters around the interior of the car until it lands on Dean. His eyes roll a little, and he grips convulsively at Dean's shirttail again. "_Oh_. That's like… diving."

Maybe he's getting the hang of angel-babble, because it doesn't freak him out this time. Much. "You're dizzy?"

"Yes, dizzy," Castiel agrees, and Dean snorts.

"No more booze for you. Lightweight. Arm up, against your chest. I'm going to reach behind you and wrap this around; that too tight? Okay, lean back."

He makes Sam pull over so he can climb out and get the angel stretched across the back seat, a canvas bag full of clothes beneath his head, a rolled-up jacket cushioning his wrecked side against the seatback.

"Still can't reach the healing?" he asks, low, and Castiel shakes his head without opening his eyes. "It's okay—it'll come back."

"Will it?"

Dean draws the blanket over him. "Cas, you heard that demon coming, didn't you?"

His eyes startle open. "That's not the same. They step _between_ to travel; the sound the doors make behind them is distinctive."

"Not to humans."

Dean holds his gaze steadily while he lets the words sink in. Finally the bitter set of Castiel's mouth relaxes; he doesn't say anything else, but he gives a little nod and settles back, moving his shoulders carefully against the canvas bag a few times before stilling.

Dean backs out and gets into the front. Sam's hands are knotted on the wheel; he's hunched forward, glaring through the windshield with a whole mix of emotions stewing across his face—anger and impatience, but guilt, too. "You done fussing?"

"For now," Dean answers evenly. The guilt must be winning; Sammy always did get pissed off when something made him feel guilty. "You okay to drive?"

"I'm _fine_. Jeez, a guy makes one mistake…"

"When Bela shot you in the arm, did I jostle you around?"

Sam huffs in annoyance, but as Dean slouches down in his seat, he notices that his brother pulls back out onto the road with extra care.

* * *

Sam's pacing through the close, red chamber, hands clasped behind his back. His feet make faint squelching noises with each step, and Dean's stomach contracts. The rack is casting jagged shadows onto the walls, and when Sam pivots, they slice across his face in dark bands.

"Sam? What're you… You don't belong here!"

Sam smiles thinly, lips drawn tight against his teeth. "It's okay. Where are we really?"

"You shouldn't _be_ here!"

"Where are we right now, Dean?"

_This is a dream._

He yanks himself free of it, so hard that he physically jumps, knees flying up, hands flying out, all smacking the dashboard. Sam – real Sam – gives him a sideways look.

"You okay?"

"Fell asleep."

"No kidding. You're still having nightmares?"

"Didn't know I had a time limit on them." Dean rubs his faces, hard, and then scooches around so he can check their passenger. "Cas okay?"

"I guess so. He's quiet anyway."

It's not a particularly helpful answer. 'Quiet' can mean bleeding out beneath the blanket, or not breathing, or leaking what's left of his Grace out the corners of his eyes like tears. Dean pushes up so he can reach over the seat and tug aside the blanket.

_Shit._ He's bled clear through the bandages already. "Pull over," Dean snaps, and he swivels, hand on the door handle, poised to leap out the second Sam coasts to a gentle stop.

There's so much blood.

The gauze is soggy with it, and the adhesive tape lifts easily when Dean peels it away. Castiel's eyes open, leveling a thousand-yard stare that passes right through Dean. "I don't want to," he says, calmly, and then a string of words spills out, words that jolt deep in the pit of Dean's stomach. Not Latin; maybe Aramaic, though some of the syllables remind him of ancient Persian, of a complex spell Bobby recited over a seriously displaced desert wind spirit once.

"Cas."

Another burst of unearthly words is his only answer. Each shivers with silent resonance against the Impala's steel bones. There are wards there, protections Dean placed within her when he rebuilt her, and he can feel the reverb of them with each word Castiel speaks.

The back door creaks open and the car dips as Sam squeezes in, bringing with him a gust of wind and highway noise. The shiver in the air is stilled beneath the rush of passing traffic.

"Here—towels from the trunk." Sam pushes rough cloth into Dean's hands, and he automatically lowers them to Castiel's injury. "Will you be okay if I keep driving? Someone's going to see us, and if the cops get involved…"

"Yeah, drive." Dean crowds up onto the seat beside Castiel's legs without easing the pressure on his shoulder, and Sam circles the car, slamming doors and trunk. "Find us someplace quiet, out of the way, where we can stop," Dean requests when Sam slides back behind the wheel.

"Sure thing."

Castiel has gone quiet again, eyes slipping shut without ever coming back into focus. Dean shifts one hand just enough to monitor the faint thump of the heartbeat while he holds the towel in place. He loses track of the minutes, of the turn-offs Sam takes, concentrating only on the slight rise and fall of the chest beneath his hands.

It's nearly an hour later when the Impala slows. "How about that?" Sam asks, and Dean raises his head at last.

They're in a rural, wooded area. No mailboxes are visible alongside the deserted stretch of two-lane road, and the only sign of civilization is a slate roof partially hidden behind a stand of pines. Overgrown bushes dip low across the lane leading to it.

"Looks promising," Dean answers, and Sam cranks the wheel sideways.

A rusted glider is nearly buried under swaths of winter-browned grass on what used to be the front lawn; behind the house are the remains of a cement-block garage, its interior filled with the collapsed roof and door. Sam pulls the Impala in beside it and cuts the engine.

"I'll check the house," Dean says, and Sam snorts.

"_I'll_ check the house—you stay with him."

"Be careful. You have a gun? Take a flashlight, too…"

"_Dean._ I got it."

Sam disappears around the corner. Dean can still hear him, thumping on the door and then prying at it, wood splintering with sharp cracks in the silence.

The angel's quiet. Dean holds on and waits.

* * *

They've traded clean comfort for a hidden bolt-hole, but they can make do for a few days. They've roughed it in abandoned buildings before.

Just… not with a guy who might be dying by slow, strange degrees.

Whoever lived in the house seems to have picked up and left one day with whatever they could carry and not much else. There are no clothes in the dressers or photos on the walls; the medicine chest in the water-stained bathroom is empty. But furniture remains, and appliances—tables and chairs, a few mouse-gnawed couches, an empty, stagnant refrigerator. Curtains, thin with dry rot, hang over the glassless windows.

Cats have gotten into the bedroom; there's still a mattress on the bedframe, but it's not fit to touch. Sam manages to scrounge up enough couch cushions for a couple of makeshift beds, and to break up the oldest furniture to get a fire going in the fireplace.

"Four planes, a commuter jet, and a news helicopter fell out of the sky around Atlanta," Sam reports when he comes back in from the car, carrying armloads of gear. He lets it all slide down onto the gritty floor. "Radio's calling it 'unprecedented wind shear', but I don't think so."

"Probably not." Dean dribbles salt in a thin line across the last windowsill, unsheathes his knife, and rolls up his sleeve. "Move—I need to mark the door."

"How many times have you bled yourself?"

"A few. Move."

"Can't you use water like on the car?"

"Blood's stronger than even holy water for some things. _Move_, Sam. I don't want angels breathing down our necks."

Sam shifts aside reluctantly. Blood's already welling from a fresh gash across his brother's forearm, and he watches Dean dip his fingers into it. "You're going to make yourself sick for him."

"I'm not even down a pint. And just remember this is keeping _your_ ass hidden, too. Now go see if there are any pots left in the kitchen."

* * *

The only light comes from the red glow of the embers in the fireplace; once Sam dropped off to sleep, Dean switched off the lantern to save the battery. Weapons are spread around him in a compact arc, and he reassembles the last gun mostly by touch, metal parts sliding together with smooth clicks.

There's something up in the crawl space under the eaves. The stealthy skitter of claws on rough wood sends an uncomfortable shiver down his spine with every scurry overhead. Dean places the cleaned gun at the end of his line-up and cradles a whetstone in his hand, hoping the soft scrape of his favorite knifeblade across it will drown out the rodents.

Blankets rustle beside him; he drops the stone and slides over. Castiel's eyes gleam up at him in the firelight.

"Hey. About time you woke up. You were starting to scare me, buddy."

"S'ry." His voice is the merest wisp of sound, and it breaks off into dry, rasping coughs that rattle his frame.

"Don't try to talk. Lemme sit you up so you can take a drink."

There are bottles of water weighing down one of the duffels; Dean snags a couple, guides one into Castiel's shaking hand. "Slowly, don't gulp. I don't need two puking patients to deal with."

He swallows, breathes out a long, shuddering gasp. "Sam?"

"Doing okay, actually." Dean steadies the angel's wrist as he raises the bottle again. "Going through another long stretch without symptoms. Seems to be sleeping pretty easy right now."

"This is good."

"Yeah. Sit back, okay? You feel like you're going to shake apart."

A branch crumbles into glowing coals, sending a whirl of sparks up the chimney. Castiel inches backwards, strain flickering across his face, until the fieldstone fireplace is bracing his back. He lets his head tip back to rest against the stones. "I am sorry to worry you. You have enough concerns, with Sam."

"Finish your water." Dean turns aside to collect the arsenal fanned across the floor. "I watch your back, you watch mine when you can," he mutters, shoving guns into the duffel. "There's soup left over—you want me to heat it up for you?"

"Thank you, no." Castiel watches Dean finish packing away the weapons, tucking knives into the loops sewn in a side pocket. When he reaches for the Lucifer sword, Castiel holds out a hand. "May I?"

Dean lays it carefully across the other's lap. "Rinsed it down with holy water and then stuck it in the fire. I'm guessing it's clean, but it's probably not a good idea to stick ourselves with it."

"No, best not." Castiel is turning it over slowly, one-handed. "You will need this; keep it close. If anything should happen, do not let it fall into enemy hands."

Ember light catches the sword, causing it, Dean notices uneasily, to glow as if the blade is forged of flame. "You still believe I can kill Lucifer with it."

"Of course." He raises it, and the light flashes along its length, from garnet to amber and back again. "The question is, _should_ you."

"I thought that was my whole purpose, my _destiny_, to destroy Lucifer."

"That is Zachariah's plan." Castiel's arm begins to tremble, and he lowers the sword to his lap again. Behind him, a chunk of firewood hisses as sap boils out of a deep crack; the low sizzling noise is the only sound for a long moment. "Fulfilling it will bring the End Times he desires. Paradise—but only for those few who remain."

Fitful reddish light and deep shadows play across his face as he stares into the flames. The image nudges at a locked-down niche in the back of Dean's mind. He pushes down a sudden irrational urge to seize the angel's chin and yank his face away from the fire.

"So what am I supposed to do then?" he demands angrily. "We can't just leave Lucifer to run roughshod over the earth."

"No." Castiel rolls his head back and the disquieting illusion of Hellfire is swallowed by the gloom. "I believe… we need to inter Lucifer in his keep once again."

"The door's open."

"There are other chambers. Ways to strengthen the doors."

"And _I'm_ supposed to do it? With _this_?" Dean plucks up the sword and holds it aloft between them. "Cas. C'mon."

"I have confidence that you can succeed."

"Zachariah said it took an _archangel_ to stuff Lucifer into his cage last time."

"Then we will have the element of surprise at least."

"_Jeez._ You really think you're funny now, don't you?"

"I am not joking. Lucifer is bound to seek you out eventually, out of curiosity for the one foretold to kill him, if nothing else. I still know the locations of the prison doors. We will be ready for him."

"Yep, you think you're funny."

Dean turns and stuffs the sword into the duffel along with the other weapons. On the far side of the fireplace, Sam makes a muffled grumbling noise, not quite wakened, but disturbed on some level by their voices. His feet scrape, restless and irritable, against the floor where they overhang his too-short pile of cushions. The air pouring through the broken windows is damp and chilly and Sam huddles his arms tighter around himself, subsiding back into deep sleep with a last cranky mutter.

Castiel is staring into the fireplace again. A breeze slips in the window; it rustles the bushes growing up through the empty frame and stirs the embers into renewed flames. Castiel shifts his shoulders on the stone wall, lifting his face skyward as the breeze ruffles his hair.

"So you knew all along where Lilith would open Lucifer's cage?" Dean jabs at the flickering coals with another scavenged branch.

"No." Castiel lowers his chin; the flash of firelight on his eyes, bright in the red, mobile light, triggers another twinge in that uncomfortable place in the back of Dean's mind. "Zachariah _didn't_ tell me much. I discovered by chance that she was the final seal while looking at a volume left unattended. I did intend to warn you, but I was being watched more closely than I suspected." His gaze slips away to the side. "I was not told of Ilchester until the final hours, after I released Sam and Zachariah was assured of my rehabilitation."

Those appalling hours in the Green Room come back to Dean in a sick rush—his dawning horror, the utter frustration of Castiel's stony coldness. His terror when the cracks in the angel's impassive armor closed over again and his last hope of saving Sam vanished.

And then the unthinkable rekindling of that hope, when, despite everything, Cas had come through for him.

An _angel_, for _him_.

Dean tosses the branch onto the fire, bending to catch that turned-aside gaze, until reluctantly, the angel's guilt-ridden eyes are drawn back to his.

"Zach really did a number on you, didn't he?"

Castiel's mouth twists. "He was… adamant… his plan succeed."

"'Adamant' – that's the ten-dollar word for 'rip you apart until you're back in line'?"

"I was not in my vessel, so…"

"So, what? It doesn't count?" Dean's voice rises, and he breaks off, glancing over at Sam. His brother snorts loudly and flails once before settling down again. Dean scoots closer to the angel. "Tell me what Zachariah did," he hisses.

The fire pops quietly. Castiel's gaze flutters up, across the ceiling and off to the side, past Dean's ear and out around the room. His shoulders shift restively against the stonework until Dean lays his hand weightily in the center of his chest and stills him.

"It no longer matters," Castiel murmurs, still not meeting his gaze.

"I know what he did to you in Chuck's house, and what he worked to make Sam do. I'd like to know the complete list of his crimes."

"It was correction, not a crime…"

"_Cas_. Tell me, so I know what all he's answering for when I kill him."

"Without divine intervention, humans cannot kill angels."

"I sure as hell can try."

Dean's hand is firm on his chest, his gaze equally firm on the head bent before him. Finally Castiel's shoulders slump infinitesimally. "In the Repository are entire catalogs housing the myriad torments humanity has devised for his fellow creatures. Zachariah had millennia of ingenuity to choose from."

"Wait—are you saying he made you watch people torturing and slaughtering each other?" Ice pours down Dean's spine; his fingers tighten involuntarily, pressing deep into the angel's skin.

"I was made to_ live_ them," Castiel says gently. "Zachariah bound my Grace, lined up the moments he'd selected, and pushed me in. When I finally emerged at the far end, I was quite convinced the most compassionate thing we could do for humanity was to put it out of its misery."

Dean's frozen, staring in horror at the wearied angel before him. "That… that's _twisted_," he whispers at last. "Heaven borrowing from Hell to break one of their own?"

"Not quite—Hell first borrowed the ideas from Earth."

Dean sinks back slowly, his hand dropping away. "If that's the case, how did you ever change your mind? How can you believe we're still worth saving after what Zach put you through?"

Castiel's shoulders twitch in a slight shrug. "I found you more convincing than Zachariah, Dean Winchester."

The calm statement rocks him to his core. "_Shit,_ Cas, are you crazy? Don't… dammit, don't put your faith in _me_."

The angel's watching him unblinkingly in the dim light. "Too late."

Dean surges up and around the room with an agitated stride. _Capture Lucifer_—a job for holy warriors, and this beat-up fugitive from Heaven's ranks is confident _he_ can do it. He circles the decrepit living room again, his footsteps startling the rodents in the ceiling into panicked skitters.

"I'm not expecting you to do it alone, you know. I will… have your back, as you say. Perhaps we can recruit others to our cause as well."

Dean circles back and crouches by the angel's side. He's shaking harder now, and despite his resolute tone, his eyes are struggling to stay open. "You're pretty out of it. The bleeding's slowed way down, but you've still got a hole punched clean through you. Scoot back over and lie down."

Castiel searches his face for a moment, while this time it's Dean who steadfastly refuses to meet the other's eyes, busying himself instead with checking the bandages swathing his shoulder. Dean's braced for more argument – or pep talk or whatever the hell Castiel is trying to inspire in him – but the angel only shakes his head.

"I would like to sit up for a while. I'm awake; I may as well keep watch so you can get some rest."

"You sure? Gotta be honest here, you don't look all that alert."

"If I grow too weary, I'll wake you. I ache too much at the moment for more sleep."

Dean winces. "At least lean on the cushions, okay?" He stretches, catches a corner of the burst and leaking couch cushions, drags them over. "Hold my arm and lift up; okay, ease back down. Now bend forward so this one can go behind your back. And take the blanket before you freeze."

When the angel's settled, Dean tosses a duffel full of clothes to the floor in front of the hearth; it makes a lumpy pillow, and he can't even pretend the floorboards are comfortable, but it's not the worst place he's ever sacked out. He shoves at the canvas until he's worked a hollow for his head into it and leans back, crossing one ankle over the other. "Don't let the mice run across me."

"Of course not." A faint thread of amusement colors Castiel's voice. Another breeze rustles through the bushes, and Dean folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes.

* * *

The corridors are dim, reeking and claustrophobic. Walls and floor have a barely perceptible inward slope, lending the impression of being sucked slowly down into a deep vortex. He veers abruptly off the main path into a side corridor, but within seconds finds it curving around, leading downward to the pit once more. Dismayed, he wrenches around, putting the red glow to his back, and finds another passage, one that leads marginally upwards.

He rounds a corner studded with the gleaming white knobs of vertebrae, but by the third step realizes the floor is spiraling lazily downward again.

The walls ripple with reflected red flowing into depthless black; from within the deep shadows a figure detaches itself and strolls toward him.

It takes him a second to recognize Sam's features on the oddly squat body; when he does, his heart – the scooped-out spot where his heart used to be – contracts violently.

"Sam. You _can't_ be here!"

A smirk curls his lip. "I know the way out, if you just tell me where we are really."

"How did you get here?"

"Followed the screams. You can follow me out, Dean. Just tell me where you saw me last."

Overwhelming horror nearly cuts his legs from under him. He reaches for his brother and Sam shuffles sideways, smiling a strange little smile as he keeps his brother at arm's length. "Where did you leave me?"

_Back in the abandoned house._ Is this his subconscious trying to remind him Hell's hallways are only a nightmare for him now? Sam's not prowling the Pit with him, he can't be.

The oozing walls blur and lighten and he's standing in the center of the dilapidated living room again, in a circle of ruddy light thrown by the fireplace. The pile of duffel bags is a dark smudge at the right edge of his vision and Sam beams at him from across the firelit space. He spreads his hands and then clasps them at his waist with a clap of too-soft flesh.

"See? I told you this is how we get out." Still beaming that pleasant smile, Sam casts another leisurely look around the room. "Where is this house, anyway? I need to know, to keep us topside."

His throat clogs with panic. His attention had been taken up by a bleeding angel, not exit signs. He remembers a fleeting glimpse of a road sign for a national forest, and…

Pain explodes in his ankle. He looks down at his feet but his feet aren't there. The room swirls and tips and there's a second burst of pain and no wonder he can't find his feet, he's lying on his back with his legs stretched out, not upright with them under him…

"Dean. _Dean_."

It's dawn. Dawn and he's blinking up at the mildew-speckled ceiling and Castiel is kicking his ankle, hard.

"Dean, wake up."

"Jeez, dude, what the hell?" Dean jerks his feet aside and rolls to a sitting position. Castiel is staring worriedly at him, half-fallen off the cushion from his efforts to rouse Dean. "When I said wake me, I meant call out, or give me a nudge."

"You were dreaming."

"Yeah, I was." The suffocating dread of the nightmare swells again, and Dean's irritation fades. "Uh, thanks, I guess."

"You were _dreaming_." Frowning, Castiel hitches closer, his movements made clumsy by the arm bound to his chest, and he searches Dean's eyes. "Too deeply. Too…" He grimaces, free hand cutting the air in a gesture of frustration.

"Just another nightmare of Hell Sweet Hell," Dean says with forced lightness. He shoves to his feet. "Gonna answer nature's call and then scrounge up some breakfast. Here; while I'm outside, drink this water—you need to replace all that fluid you lost yesterday."

"Dean…"

"Oh my god, can't you wake up _quietly?_" Sam groans from his pile of cushions. He pulls the coat he's been using as a blanket over his head and his distressed bleating noises follow Dean out the door to the dew-soaked yard.

He's crouched on the hearth when Dean returns, making pissy-faces at the dying coals he's just smothered under a too-large chunk of wood. Dean hates camping, and Sam sucking at woodscraft is just one of the reasons why. "Leave that," he orders, setting down a shoebox he's brought in from the trunk and elbowing Sam aside. There's a coating of ash all over his boots and the bricks and hanging in the air around the fireplace opening, along with the acrid smell of smoke.

Sam growls something under his breath that Dean just ignores as he nudges the firewood back out of the coals. Sam's shoving his arms into his jacket with sharp angry motions and he jerks his chin at Castiel. "Your angel gets really twitchy when you leave the room. You might wanna teach him to lengthen the tether."

"Go pee, Sam. You'll feel better."

Dean doesn't look up as his brother huffs out the door. He just concentrates on rebuilding the fire, scraping ashes out of the grate, slipping twists of old receipts fished from the depths of his pockets beneath the scant embers. "Sorry about that."

He sees Castiel's shoulder lift in a slight shrug. "Sam's discomfort is understandable. Demon blood is extremely toxic."

"I'm okay going outside, you know. I'm careful."

"You cannot let your guard down for even a second."

"Believe me, I know. Lucifer's got a big ol' neon target pasted on my back." A thin line of flame is creeping along the twisted paper, and Dean tucks dry twigs in beside it, blowing gently until they ignite. Castiel flicks a sharp glance up at him, and he grins. "Figure of speech, Cas."

"Yes, of course." The angel turns the empty water bottle in his hands, seemingly intent on the print on the label. "I'm actually more worried about Zachariah at the moment."

"Zach? We gave him the slip. Got that bloodspell to keep us out of sight." Carefully, Dean crisscrosses thin branches over the strengthening flames and then sits back on his heels while he waits for them to kindle.

"It is not infallible."

"Yeah, I know. I won't get too dependent on it." Dean cocks his head. "What is it, anyway?"

"Enochian." The angel bends one knee, drawing his leg in so he can shift his weight forward in careful increments. He traces his finger in a circle through the ash and dust on the floor. "_Within_. For the place to be protected. These…" and he crosses it with a diagonal grid of lines, "…give order to the wards." He swirls one of the now-familiar symbols Dean has been drawing for days into the top space. "_Eyes._ And directly below, _reflect_. Or _mirror_, or _cast back_, the meanings are flexible."

A gust of wind smudges the dust-drawn lines, announcing Sam's return. He stares down at the pair hunched over the hearth with the sigil between them. "Is there coffee?"

"Workin' on it, Sam."

"I can see that. I'm starving, Dean."

"Got your appetite back, good. Look in that brown paper bag over there, that's where I stashed the groceries."

There's a sustained bout of rustling behind Dean, as if Sam's trying to crawl into the bag instead of extract packages from it. "_To veil_," Castiel says softly after a quick glance at Sam, and Dean leans close again as he swirls another symbol into the center space. "Or else _shroud_, either is valid."

Then a loud rattling interrupts the lesson as Sam holds up the cereal box he's dug out and shakes it. "No milk, I guess?"

"I'll pop down to the corner market and pick up a quart," Dean says, exasperated. "Can you eat it dry for once?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yeah, _you_ can go find a store. I'm not even sure where we are."

The fire's burning hot enough now to heat water; Dean fills a pot from one of the water jugs and sets it into the coals. Sam's crunching his way through the cereal one handful at a time, fooling with the laptop balanced across his knees and grumpily occupied for the moment. Dean reels in the shoebox from the Impala's trunk and riffles through the contents.

"Here we go—topographic map of the U.S." He unfolds it and flattens it to the floor in front of Castiel; the angel visibly perks up and leans over, studying it with interest. "Can you point out where the cage doors are?"

It takes him a minute, scrunching his eyes and tilting his head, before his expression clears. "Ah, I see. This representation is very different from an actual view from above." His finger comes down near the East Coast and taps once. "You know this one—St. Mary's, Ilchester." Castiel slides his finger up the map. "But here, also."

Dean bends closer. "North Jersey?"

"Clifton." His finger slides northward. "And here."

"Watertown, New York."

"Outside it, actually. Along the Black River by the village called Philadelphia."

Dean barks out a laugh. "Another city of brotherly love. Nice."

Castiel continues on down the map. "Detroit. Near Knoxville. Lake Ouachita."

"Wait, wait, go back. Knoxville?"

Castiel traces a circle over eastern Tennessee. "Not in the city, it's just the nearest large marker. Nearby."

"Hold on." Dean twists, pulls another map from the shoebox, flaps it open, and spreads it overtop the first. "Tennessee. Show me."

Another head-tilt, and then, "Here." His finger comes down close to a small dot labeled Maryville, in a swatch of green that's part of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.

"That one's within easy driving distance of where we are now—where I think we are now. Sam? Where are we?"

His brother's staring at them, a fistful of cereal rings halfway to his mouth. "_What_ are you two talking about?"

Dean takes a deep breath, and when he lets it out, he's smiling coldly. "The place we need to go next—the place where we might be able to cage up Lucifer again."

* * *

Maps are spread across the floor in rustling layers. Dean's frowning over them and Sam's working on a page of notes gleaned from satellite photos, chamber of commerce websites, and archives of Appalachian lore.

"There're a lot of ghosts walking those hills, apparently," Sam says.

Dean glances up from the pages of the journal. "Dad has some notes in here, too, nothing specific, but he mentions the Smokys as a hotspot for spirits."

"Nothing about Heaven's prison doors?"

"Nope; but he copied down a story about a colonial settlement being taken over by mass 'possession by dark imps'—the people went nuts and vanished into the mountains and left the village to rot. Dad got the story from an old hill woman; says it was passed down to her from her great-grandmother."

"And the settlement was in the spot Castiel pointed out?"

"Doesn't say. Nobody ever came back to rebuild, and the exact location got lost over time."

"Huh." Sam's got a bag of pretzels propped on his hip and a jar of peanut butter clamped between his knees, and he absently dips a pretzel in the jar before stuffing it in his mouth. "Ghosts and demons and a town in the wrong place that got removed." He crunches loudly for another moment and shrugs. "We've investigated places on less."

"Yeah." Dean slides a couple of maps closer, lining them up in geographical order. "You said we're still in Illinois?"

"A little southeast of Shawnee National Forest."

"We'll need to get back on the interstate. Head to Nashville, then take I-40 to Knoxville. We can be in the area by the end of the day."

"Today?" Sam asks, startled, a puff of pretzel crumbs spraying out as he speaks.

Dean glances back at Castiel, curled loosely on the musty cushions and seemingly asleep again. "Nah. We'll be okay here for another night. We'll hit the road first thing in the morning."

* * *

Sam's seated across from him in the sole armchair, legs outstretched, hands folded on his stomach. He seems mesmerized by the crackling fire, but he smiles fondly without looking up when he feels his gaze land on him.

"You see? As long as I know where we are, I can keep us out of Hell." Sam raises his eyes then, and they glint small and bright in the firelight. "Where is this house located?"

"Why're you asking me? You're the one who drove us here, Sammy."

The walls flush with a reddish cast. As he watches, they soften and darken, and his heart jolts when a clot of blood the size of his fist oozes down the wall beside the fireplace. The mantel is suddenly crowned with rib bones, bristling pale in the now-lurid light.

"I need to know, Dean, to keep us out!" Sam's words are urgent, but his tone has a flatness to it as if he's reciting lines.

_Because this is a dream. It's not Hell, it's only a dream._

Before he can wrench himself out, Sam's chair dissolves in a mist of blood and bone. His brother tips over onto the floor and shoves himself desperately backwards on hands and heels, his face contorted in terror. "They're coming! Don't let them take me, Dean! Tell me where we are so I can get us out of here!"

Nails skitter along bone pathways, drawing nearer out of the darkness. Deep visceral dread fills him, and an image flashes unbidden in his mind's eye.

The last place he knew for certain where they were—the Illinois highway seen from the Impala's backseat, a flash of road sign, the words _Shawnee National Forest, next exit_ barely registering before his attention is turned elsewhere. Blood is slick beneath his palm as inertia drags them through a long turn. The exit ramp narrows down into a two-lane road that carries them deep into the countryside.

"_Dean, hurry!"_

A heartbeat is fluttering erratically under his hand and he can't watch the road right now, so to save Sam, he blurts, "We're in Illinois, a little southeast of Shawnee…"

Sam's face blinks from terrified to elated. The blood-soaked chamber melts away to the interior of the Impala, the overgrown lane leading to the abandoned house visible through the windshield…

"_Dean!_ Wake up!"

A huge jolt snaps through Dean. A hand is gripped tight on his shoulder, digging in so deeply his skin burns. Sam's face is bled of color for a split second – pale eyes, pale hair, pale mouth parting angrily – and then the image is gone, replaced by Castiel's face inches from his.

Another hard shake rocks him. "Dean, wake up, _now_," Castiel insists, voice ringing with command.

"Dude, I'm awake."

"You _weren't_."

"That's kind of the point – night, sleep – humans need it."

Castiel's mouth goes tight, worry creasing his forehead. "You were dreaming."

"I know." Dean catches the angel's arm, giving it a little jiggle, and Castiel reluctantly loosens his grasp and sits back on his heels. "They've gotten worse lately, but shit, no wonder, right? Don't sweat it, Cas."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, you don't understand. The dreaming, it's too deep. You are… too still. Too quiet. It isn't _usual_, of the times you suffered these dreams before."

He's agitated, shoulders twitching, eyes flicking to the window where the curtains are shifting in the breeze, then back to Dean again. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.

"Okay, sit down before you fall over." Dean presses on a tense shoulder until Castiel huffs out a breath and thumps down onto the floor. "Take a deep breath—seriously, Cas, you've got the shakes. Another. Okay. Now tell me what the problem is. Take your time."

A sudden spatter of raindrops startles another twitch from him. "We don't have the luxury of time. Dean, quickly—tell me what you've been dreaming."

His intensity stirs a deep disquiet in the pit of Dean's stomach. "What else? Hell. I'm down in the Pit again."

"Who is with you?"

"How did you…? Sam, okay? Somehow I dragged Sam down with me."

"It's not Sam." Castiel pushes close, fixing Dean with a quietly frantic gaze. "Someone is walking in your dreams."

Dean rears back. "Who?"

"I don't know. I tried – I cannot – I could only wake you."

"Then how do you know someone's in there?" His stomach goes into a slow, churning roll, and Dean rubs at the back of his neck, prickling with cold sweat.

"You shudder in your sleep when Hell invades your dreams. Your legs move, and you lash out." Castiel's eyes flick down to Dean's hands, which had clenched tight as soon as the angel began to speak. He lowers his voice. "You curse, and your own shouts wake you if the nightmare continues long enough."

"You know all that about me?" Dean asks, low.

Castiel gestures with his unbound hand. "You were my charge, Dean."

He shakes his head, not wanting to examine that too closely. "So how was this different?"

"You became very, very still. Silent. I heard the change in your breathing as you sank into the angel's construct."

"An angel's doing this?"

"We are the only beings who can build realities from a distance. Dean, what is Sam doing while in these dreams?"

Dean's eyes fall shut in dismay. "He's asking where we are."

Castiel shoves gracelessly to his feet, snatching for Dean's shoulder again. "Did you answer?"

"Yeah, I… shit. Kind of. I told him the last place I remembered for certain."

"So he's close. We need to leave, _now_. Get your brother up."

"Who could sleep through all this _talking?_" In the shadows on the far side of the fireplace, Sam sits up on his cushions. "Who's coming? Lucifer?"

"Possibly. But I suspect Zachariah or one of his followers. Someone who knew to search through dreams for actual memories of Hell, and then to track those to Dean. We must _go_."

Rain pelts Dean full in the face when he yanks open the door. By the time he shoves the others into the car, all three of them are soaked. He plunks the weapons bag into Sam's lap. "Find the sword. I'll be right back."

"Dean, we should not linger," Castiel says urgently from the backseat.

"I won't be long."

He circles the living room, camp lantern raised high and casting oblique shadows on the walls. They've left nothing behind but the blood symbol on the door. Dean scrapes his boot through the smudged sigils on the hearth and bends to stir the coals—the blood-soaked bandages and towels have been burned to ash so no trace remains.

He leaves the house to the scurrying rodents and ducks through the rain to the Impala.

* * *

Rain pounds the car as they flee through the night. The wipers thump rapidly, barely able to keep up with the downpour. Dean hunches forward, peeling his wet shirt off the upholstery, before touching the sword on the seat beside him to reassure himself of its presence. He glances at the rearview mirror to catch Castiel's eye.

"Will the protection on the roof hold up through this?"

"Not indefinitely. It will eventually erode."

"Can you tell if it's still working?"

"Yes." The angel sounds surprised he hasn't lost the ability. He tilts his head back, gazing up at – or maybe _through_ – the car roof.

"Tell me when it starts to go."

"I will."

They drive on. Sam flounces from side to side, pulling at his damp jeans and flannel until Dean cranks the heat and he dries off enough to stop fussing and play with the radio. The all-night news stations are still talking about the air crashes in Atlanta, mixed with breaking reports of a wildfire now devouring parts of Maine. The newscasters are arguing, tossing out theories that grow wilder the longer they chatter. When one of them brings up aliens, Dean points at the radio.

"Find some music or turn it off."

It's near dawn when Castiel stirs in the backseat. "Dean."

"Okay. I'll find a place to stop."

Half an hour down the road is a rest stop, deserted in the pre-dawn storm. Sam grabs a duffel and groans his way out of the front seat. "Oh, thank god, running water! Don't rush, Dean, I'm dying to wash up and change."

The car is silent save for the drumming rain and the tick of the cooling engine. Sam's sloshing footsteps recede and the restroom door _thump-thumps_ behind him. Dean draws a long, slow breath and lifts up on one hip to slide his knife free.

"Where should I paint it?"

Castiel regards him with regret. "You won't like this."

"On the ceiling, huh?"

"I am afraid so."

"Gotta be done," he sighs. The dressing around his forearm rips free. Dean half-turns to prop his arm on the seatback; he presses the blade to his skin. Castiel sits forward, free hand sliding beneath Dean's arm to catch any spilled blood.

The curving lines and symbols take shape rapidly beneath his slick fingers. Dean arches back, reaching to trace the bottom-most glyph, and Castiel shifts with him, spread hand guarding the upholstery.

Dean presses a sticky thumb to the outer edge, three nearly-overlapping dots forming an equilateral triangle, and Castiel's whisper stirs the underside of his outstretched arm. The symbol seems to shimmer for a second, but when Dean blinks, the lines lie motionless and flat once more.

"What was that? Should I have been saying it too?"

The angel shakes his head. "_Gemeganza_," he repeats. "It means 'Your will be done'. It's a gesture of respect, for use of the power. Not necessary, just…"

"Superstition?" Dean suggests, and Castiel thins his lips and ducks away, bending to snag a shirt that trails out of the nearest duffel.

"Angels are not superstitious. It is respect, nothing more."

"Knocking wood is a gesture of respect, too, from certain points of view." Dean wraps the offered shirt around his arm and jerks his head at the door. "Hop out. You need a change of clothes if you're going to be out in public."

"Am I?"

"Well, I need breakfast that isn't served in wax paper and eaten in the car before I go stomping around in the wet woods looking for a hidden door, and until your angel mojo comes back, so do you. You can't sit in a diner in jeans with that much blood on them."

They're getting low on clothes again. Dean digs through the duffels from the trunk and manages to piece together some clean shorts, socks, a pair of jeans that won't trip Cas or fall off him. The water that dribbles from the rest stop's faucets is lukewarm at best, and the paper towels are coarse, but it's sufficient for a rough clean-up.

"Hold still." Dean's trying to knot a sling over Castiel's shoulder, and he keeps twisting, looking behind him toward the narrow window set high in the back wall above the toilet stalls, and then back past Dean to the heavy door. "You're awful twitchy; you hear something?"

"No. We're too far from the car, though."

"I'm almost done. Okay, slide your arm in here—carefully!" he adds as Castiel's breath hisses between his teeth. "Let the weight rest on the sling. Better?"

"Much. I thank you."

"No problem. Now let's go find breakfast."

* * *

They find breakfast in a small homey café a dozen or so miles further down the road. The windows glow, warm and welcoming in the early morning murk, and the parking lot is crowded with pick-ups and a couple of logging trucks. Dean edges the Impala right up to the weathered board walls, beneath the end-most window.

He squirms, working his arms out of his jacket so he can drape it around the Lucifer sword. Sam pauses with his hand on the door handle.

"You can't take that in a restaurant!"

"Watch me."

"Dean!"

"_Sam!_" he parrots, and then, "I'm not letting it out of my reach. We have _angels_ tailing us, in case you forgot. This the only weapon remotely able to take one out."

The wooden steps sag under their weight, and the screen door screeches with nostalgic familiarity when Dean swings it wide, triggering memories of the thousands of other rural cafés he and his brother and his dad have eaten in over the years. The sword is a reassuring weight under his arm as he ushers Sam and Castiel inside.

A wave of warm air, sweet with the scents of coffee, bacon, syrup, washes over them as soon as Sam shoves open the inner door, and Dean's stomach rumbles, loudly enough that his brother snickers.

Sam's just as hungry, though—he barrels ahead for the nearest table, and Dean has to divert him, send him down the scuffed aisle to the booth all the way in the back. The Impala is parked directly below them, gleaming in the steady drizzle.

Dean points his chin in her direction. "This close enough?" he asks Castiel in a low voice.

"Yes. Barely."

"Okay, then sit down. You're going to eat something. Just until your holy generator comes back online."

He makes Sam slide over to the window and pushes in beside him, tucking the sword next to his thigh where he can grab it in a hurry if he needs to. Castiel is sitting bolt upright on the seat opposite, casting sidelong glances around the restaurant. Most of the other customers seem to know each other, and the conversation is loud and friendly, rising above the clatter of thick china and heavy silverware and the racket from the kitchen. Dean sticks his leg out under the table to nudge Castiel's ankle.

"Relax, okay? I'm watching the door."

Their waitress hustles up, pen already poised over her order pad. "Morning, guys. What can I… _whoa._ What does the other guy look like?" she blurts, after an almost comical double-take at the sight of Castiel's battered face.

He blinks, head tilting slightly, and replies gravely, "Zachariah's true visage has no human frame of reference, but…"

Dean lunges forward, hand shooting out and slapping down hard on Castiel's wrist to cut him off. "He thinks he's funny," he says lightly, and offers a what-can-ya-do grin and shrug up at the waitress. "He needs his coffee. So do I. And I'll have the special, extra homefries, extra side of bacon. He'll have pancakes, plain. And a glass of milk. Oh, and you don't happen to have honey, do you?"

"Um…" She looks from Dean's fingers, pressed into his companion's arm in warning, back to his fixed smile, and nonchalantly sways back a step from the table. "Yeah, I think so."

"Great. Bring that instead of syrup, could you?"

"Uh, sure. What about him?" she asks with a nod at Sam, who's struggling to maintain a bland expression. "You gonna order for him too, or let him do it himself?"

"Oh, he can order," Dean says breezily, and sits back with a final warning stare at the angel.

"That was one of those figures of speech again, Cas," he explains once the waitress has swept away to the kitchen pass. "She was just commenting on how roughed-up you look, not asking for a dissertation on angel anatomy."

"Oh." His forehead crinkles, and Dean can tell he's running the exchange through his mind again, working out the colloquial meaning behind the literal words. He sees the moment Cas gets it—he touches his thumb to the deep split in his lip, runs a fingertip across one bruised, swollen cheek… and then his mouth lifts in a shadow of a smirk. "_Oh._ The other guy."

Dean can't help grinning back. "Yeah. We'll let her think he looks worse than you, okay? It's better for your image."

The waitress returns in a gratifyingly short time, bracing a heavy tray on the edge of the table and doling out mugs and juice glasses and plates. Dean passes Sam his plate – it's full of some kind of weird omelet thing, studded with strange vegetation and oozing strands of what had better be cheese – while the waitress sets out ketchup and a squeeze bottle of honey.

"Anything else, guys?"

"We're good for now." Castiel is staring in fascination at the heaped plate at Dean's elbow; while he's distracted, Dean reaches over and starts fixing the angel's coffee, cutting it liberally with milk until it's a pale, creamy tan. He pops the cap on the honey and squeezes out a generous golden pool overtop the stack of pancakes. "Okay, you're all set. Can you manage a fork left-handed? Then dig in."

Dean sits back, sliding his own plate over with a happy sigh. He feels Sam's sudden stare and looks up with a wary frown. "What?"

"Dude." Sam shakes his head, turning his gaze to the angel sitting across the booth from them and studying his breakfast with deep concentration. "You're feeding him milk and honey."

"Yeah, so?" Dean's back goes stiff, and his defensive tone makes Castiel pause his careful sectioning of his pancakes and glance up.

"So, nothing." Sam gives his brother a half-smile. "That's… really clever."

"Hey, I listened to Pastor Jim's sermons."

"Occasionally," Sam snorts, but he's still smiling as he curves his arm around his own plate and tucks in. Castiel flicks a glance between the two of them, and, apparently hearing only friendly jibes, goes back to his breakfast.

"I miss Jim," Dean says abruptly. He stabs his fork into his potatoes. "We could really use him for this fight."

"Yeah." Sam stares down at the table. "Me, too," he says softly.

They finish eating in silence, the hum and clatter of the café a warm backdrop to their shared meal.

.


	9. Yeah we will stand as one

See part 1 for disclaimers.

* * *

The Devil You Know

Part 9

* * *

They roll into town on the tail end of another heavy cloudburst. The stormdrains aren't keeping up with the volume of water; the intersections on the main drag are inundated, and Dean creeps through them cautiously, tires throwing out long ripples that wash the curbs. Out past the far edge of town lies a ridge of rounded mountains, their newly green domes barely visible behind the sheets of rain.

By the time they cross the valley and reach the foothills, the darkest clouds have passed on to the west. The street Dean's following ends at a T-intersection; he pauses there, looking up and down the foothills road in the light of a blinking amber traffic light. Finally, for no other reason than there seem to be fewer houses in that direction, he turns left.

"Do you know where the door opens?" Dean asks. He's got his window rolled down so the deep growl of the Impala's engine fills the car. Dripping forested slopes rise sharply above the right side of the road, and he's not looking forward to thrashing his way up them.

"Not… precisely," Castiel replies absently, gaze sweeping the hills. "It will be in a rocky area."

"We're in the mountains, Cas. It's _all_ rocky."

"I'll know it when I see it."

The road rises higher into the Smokys. The air is heavy with humidity and Dean leans forward to swipe fog off the windshield. They haven't passed another car in either direction for miles now, and he's not sure if that should raise alarm bells or not. It's early in the season for tourists, and wet for outings in the woods, but surely some locals should be out and about…

"There." Castiel touches Dean's shoulder and points. "Pull in there."

A turn-off leads back into the national park. Thick wooden signs are spaced every few yards along the smoothly paved road, covered in long lists of rules and warnings, while arrows indicate trails and campsites.

It's quiet. They cruise slowly past a ranger station; an SUV with a Forest Service decal is parked out front and the windows beneath the deep porch are lit, but there's no other sign of life. A single bird calls shrilly and then is silent.

The road winds deeper into the park, over a rain-swollen creek and past trailheads and entrances to campgrounds. Slowly the roadside and the fields and paths flanking it become less manicured and more overgrown. The road narrows, and then the pavement ends altogether just as the ground's pitch becomes dramatically steeper.

Dean slows the car. "Crap."

Castiel points ahead, up the muddy, rutted roadway. "That way."

"Of course that way. Damn unpaved trails, story of my life…"

The Impala bumps upward at a snail's pace, gravel spitting from beneath the tires. Dean mumbles apologies beneath his breath, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The road curves around a seeping outcropping of rock and Sam hastily rolls up his window against a sudden cascade of water. Beyond the streaming cliff wall the road widens into a turn-around backed by a padlocked gate.

Dean brakes just shy of it. A sign warns 'authorized access only', and he glares at it for a second before lifting his eyes to the mirror. The road on the far side of the gate looks even worse, but Castiel nods.

"Crap," Dean moans again. He shoves open his door, patting at his pocket for his lock-picks.

It's more of a trail now than a road. A long section is washboarded by run-off, and Dean's practically whimpering by the time they jounce over it. "Where am I gonna find struts for a '67 Chevy out here in the boonies?"

"Is any of this necessary?" Sam's grim-faced, clinging to the doorframe for dear life. "We should've stayed in town and researched more. You're following directions from an angel who's lost his powers."

"He hasn't lost his powers." Dean hunches forward, as if that can coax the car along. "Don't knock Angel Radar."

If Sam's words sting, Castiel's expression doesn't show it. He touches Dean's shoulder again. "In there."

"In _where_?"

"To the right. Between the birch trees."

It doesn't look feasible, but when Dean cranks the wheel to the side, the Impala noses in neatly between the pair of huge, white-barked trees. Mountain laurels ring a space just larger than the car, and dense thickets of them climb the sides of a steep footpath just visible before them.

"No way can I get her up that."

"Then we'll have to walk." Castiel is already out of the car, and Dean joins him. It's dim and the air is tinged green and moist. With the engine off, the trickle of a creek can be heard nearby. Castiel stares up the pathway, head tilted slightly as if he's listening intently. When he turns back to Dean, his eyes are pinched with concern. "You must be extremely careful—we'll be out of range of the cloaking symbol."

Dean throws open the trunk. "We can be ready for demons, at least. Sam, get your ass back here and weapon up."

Holy water is portioned out into canteens they sling over their shoulders, salt into leather pouches tied to belts. Dean scoops salt rounds into a pack and shrugs it onto his back before palming a shotgun. "I'll take point; Sam, watch the rear, and don't lose the knife."

The trail isn't as difficult as it looks. Once past a tumble of loose gravel washed down around the base, it's almost a staircase cut from the rock. Some of the treads have crumbled over the centuries, but Dean finds he can step easily enough from one solid shelf to the next.

There's no sign anyone has passed recently, and no telling how many people traveled the path in the past. The trickling creek fades out behind them; the air is still, but Dean swears he can hear whispers. He jams to a halt. Castiel freezes behind him, and Sam thumps into the angel's back and curses.

"Shh!"

"Why are you stopping?"

"Listening."

The whispers have ceased. There's only the drip of rain through the branches, the impatient scrape of Sam's boot sole, his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. Far away, so far it's just a low moan carried on the damp air, a train's horn sounds.

"Listening to _what?_" Sam prods finally, and Dean shakes himself.

"Nothing, I guess."

He continues upward, hyper-aware now of the small noises he's making—boots scuffing on rock, pack creaking with the shift of his shoulders. A pebble breaks loose under his tread and bounces down the path in a series of sharp clicks.

"I hear them," Sam murmurs a moment later.

Dean doesn't stop this time. "Who?" he murmurs back.

"Dunno. There's… a few of them. Alongside us."

Something breathes through the leaves on Dean's left—breathes, but doesn't stir the foliage. He lifts his foot to the next stone step, watching the laurels from the corner of his eye. Nothing moves, but another whisper slips past his cheek, too quietly for him to discern any words.

"Cas?"

"They're echoes."

Dean's stomach lurches. "The wrong kind?"

"No. No doors are opening. They're just echoes." The angel stretches out his hand, trailing it through the wet, leathery leaves, and the soft noises dissipate.

"Ghosts?" Sam asks, and Castiel shakes his head.

"Not even that. Echoes of feelings—sorrow, mostly. The anger and fear have faded."

"I take it we're on the right track for that settlement that got wiped out," Dean mutters.

It's marginally brighter ahead. The trees give way to overcast sky and a wide open meadow. On its far side is a steep, rocky slope, nearly bare of trees, rising the rest of the way to the mountain's peak. Castiel takes one look, sidesteps Dean, and takes off across the meadow.

"Not so fast!" Dean catches his elbow. He flips the shotgun around to lie comfortably along his arm. "Let me get the lay of the land before you go charging in."

If anything it's even quieter than the woods beneath them. Even as high as they are, there isn't a breath of wind; the drip and patter of raindrops is absent. Mist rises in sheets, blurring the treetops dropping away below them and wreathing the summit of the mountain in smoky swirls.

Sam scrambles up the last few steps of the path. "No birds," he observes quietly; his knife scrapes softly out of his belt sheath.

"Scared off by something, or it's always too creepy for 'em?" Dean wonders, and Sam shrugs.

"Don't know, but there goes your angel again."

Castiel has slid around Dean's other side and is striding through the long grass toward the rocks. Dean has to break into a trot to catch up to him. "Cas, wait."

"It's up there somewhere, among the stones." He twists his arm free. "Stay here, I'll go look."

"You are _not_ going alone." Dean crowds in front of him, hand on his chest above the sling.

"It's only a sealed door, leading to an empty chamber. I just wish to locate it."

"I'm pretty sure demons have been keeping an eye on it."

"All the more reason for you and your brother to wait here."

"_Why?_" Dean explodes. "Because of that damn prophecy saying I'm the one to stop Lucifer?"

"Yes." Castiel draws himself up, leaning nearly into Dean's face, and drills him with an intense blue gaze. "I am expendable—you are not."

"Oh, bullshit." Dean can play 'Invade your space' just as well as the angel can, and he shoves close until they're practically nose to nose. "You're an angel of the freakin' _Lord_—how is that 'expendable' when a couple of puny humans are going up against the _Devil?_"

"Without my powers, I am less useful than a human hunter…"

"Don't you get it?" Dean sinks back, his sudden flare of temper draining away. "This isn't about you being 'useful' or not. You are not fucking _expendable_, no matter what your dick brothers tried to tell you."

Castiel looks at him with that puzzled head-tilt, an unreadable expression in his eyes, and Dean sighs.

"A real smart man once told me 'Family don't end with blood'. And family – _my_ family – watches out for each other. If you're going up on the haunted mountain looking for a cell to lock Lucifer in, I'm going with, got it?"

Castiel blinks, the bewilderment wiping to startled comprehension. He looks… stunned, actually, by the word 'family'. Then his expression clears and his chin comes up. "I… got it."

"Okay, then. Lead the way, 'cuz I got your back."

Dean turns to locate Sam, slouched awkwardly back by the treeline, and waves him forward. They proceed in a ragged line across the meadow, boots tearing through the grass with soft ripping sounds. Castiel reaches the boundary of the meadow first and lays his hand on the nearest rock.

"Further in."

His fingers trail along the rough, lichened surface as he rounds the base of the huge boulder. There's a narrow crevice between it and the adjacent rock, and he raises one foot to step up into the space.

Afterward, Dean's not sure which catches his attention first—the subtle rustle of wings, or the curtain of mist tearing aside, glimpsed at the edge of his vision. He wrenches around, and in a replay of his nightmare, a dark figure detaches from the shadows lining the high grey rocks.

"Dean, Dean, Dean. You're a hard man to track down."

Zachariah steps down onto the grass.

He skirts them slowly, smirking despite the coldly furious glint in his eyes. Dean snatches for Castiel's shoulder, dragging the angel behind him. He stumbles a little as his boots catch on the tangle of grass, and Zachariah's smirk deepens.

"Castiel—is that you? I barely recognize you without the wings, kiddo." He shudders his own shoulders in a fussy little shiver. "I see my sources were right about the demon blood—it's burned the angel clean out of you, hasn't it?"

"Shut your filthy trap." Dean brings the shotgun up with a snap, stepping sideways to cut off Zachariah's stealthy circling. The other angel raises his eyebrows.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? With _that?_" He laughs mockingly.

Dean tosses the shotgun to the ground, reaching at the same time up behind his back. He shrugs, drawing Lucifer's sword from the pack as it falls. When his arm comes down, the sword is pointed straight at Zachariah.

For a split second his smugness falters and a flash of consternation crosses Zachariah's face. Then peals of derisive laughter roll out across the meadow. "Suffering delusions of grandeur, are you? You're no angel, boy; you can't kill me with that."

Dean smiles grimly. "No? Well, I can have fun trying."

Sam sidles out from behind him, Ruby's knife raised high in his fist. Dean's eyes widen. "Sam, get back!"

"_Take him_, Dean, while I flank him!"

His brother lunges, and Dean scrambles after him, skidding in the wet grass. Zachariah spins smoothly, arm flying up to meet Sam's charge. The heel of his hand connects solidly with Sam's forehead, snapping his head back and dropping him in his tracks.

Dean lashes out with a vicious backslash, putting all the considerable strength of his back and shoulders into the stroke. The blade rips across Zachariah's midsection; it slices through clothing and flesh so keenly there's no resistance against the blade. A broad red band bursts wetly across his center; for an instant, Zachariah looks frightened, his eyes dropping to the gaping wound nearly bisecting him.

Dean grins and brings the sword back up. It gleams golden in the grey, clouded light, poised above Zachariah's throat… and then Dean rams it home.

It pierces nothing but empty air. Dean staggers a half dozen steps before he can catch his balance. The angel is standing a mere foot to the left of where he had been an instant earlier. Before Dean can react, he sweeps his arm around and slams his fist into the small of Dean's back.

Pain explodes up his spine. His legs go numb and his vision goes dark and the next thing Dean knows, he's face down, sucking dirt. His lungs fight against his drawing a full breath.

The sword's still clenched in his fist. Dean draws his knees up, spine screaming with the motion, and rolls over.

Castiel is crouched over Sam, hand covering his temple, but his stretched-wide eyes are fastened on Dean. Zachariah stands in front of them, two fingers extended back toward Castiel while he smoothes his other hand across his belly. The deep gash vanishes, leaving an expanse of unmarred suit.

"I told you, but you wouldn't listen. You're just like _him_—always doing things the hard way." Zachariah flicks a hard glance at Castiel. "_You will not move_." The power in his voice rumbles like thunder. He snaps his gaze back to Dean. "Stop with the posturing. Hand over that sword and come quietly. You can have it back when you face Lucifer."

Dean pushes onto his knees, not even looking at Zachariah. "Cas, is Sam okay?"

"He's deeply asleep, but otherwise unhurt."

"Watch him for me, okay?"

He stabs the sword into the rocky ground and uses it to haul himself to his feet. The hot agony in his back nearly steals his breath, but he forces himself not to gasp as he pulls himself straight and faces Zachariah. "No."

The declaration rocks the angel's head back an inch. "No? You can't say no."

"I just did."

Dean tugs the blade free and brings it up, shifting one foot back to brace himself for the expected rush of fury. But Zachariah only regards him with bland inquiry. "Do you understand that your refusal dooms every man, woman and child on this earth to agonizing death? How do you square that with your conscience?"

"Like your way is any better. How many millions die while you fight to set up my head-to-head with Lucifer? If that's even _possible_."

"Oh, it's not only possible, it's ordained." Zachariah gives his head a rueful shake. "The prophecy—this one – is genuine. It requires _you_ to complete it. You think I wouldn't change that if I could? You're the one necessary to kill Lucifer."

"Or cage him up again." Dean risks taking his eyes off the angel for a swift glance back at Sam and Castiel. His brother still hasn't moved, but Castiel's hand rests easily on his forehead; he has to assume if Sam were in real distress the angel would be doing something other than monitoring him.

Zachariah looks taken aback. "Cage him up? Why? After we worked so hard to spring him—Oh." He turns his glare onto Castiel. "Someone's been reading the archives again and getting bright ideas." He clucks his tongue. "You spend all that time with the books, Castiel, you must know which circle of Hell traitors are consigned to."

Castiel spares him only the briefest glance and then returns his steady gaze to Dean, unmoved by the threat.

Zachariah extends his hand to Dean. "We aren't caging Lucifer, we're killing him. We're going to flush the earth clean, and you know it. Your protest has been noted, if that makes you feel any better. Now it's time to go, Dean."

"I won't go anywhere with you." He whips the sword up and around. The blade clips the angel's outstretched wrist in a spray of red. As Zachariah automatically bows forward, Dean dodges, poised to toss the sword underhand to Castiel.

"Cas! Catch this and kill him!"

"He's not an angel any more, you idiot."

Zachariah's hand is no longer severed; Zachariah's hand is swinging at Dean's head, catching him on the temple with a devastating blow and sending him flying into one of the boulders at the meadow's edge.

He crashes against its unyielding surface. The crunch of a couple of ribs caving forces the air from his chest in an explosive gust. Fresh agony tears through his back. Dean slides down the rock to land on hands and knees.

Something dark rushes up at his face; a knee cracks his cheekbone and suddenly there's blood everywhere, filling his sinuses, clogging his throat. He falls back against the boulder. He can barely get his head up, and when he does, a fist crashes across it.

This time he flies sideways, plowing across the ground on one shoulder. Everything sucks down into a sick swirl of red-smeared blackness.

There's blood in his eyes when he gets them open. Someone's making a choked wheezing sound and he thinks it's him. He blinks; a pair of dark, polished shoes and the cuffs of neatly pressed pants appear beneath his weaving, swaying head. Fingers dig cruelly tight against his scalp, wrenching his head back until the blood filling his throat chokes him.

Zachariah's eyes, blazing with cold fire, fill Dean's entire field of vision. "I only need you breathing, boy. If you won't cooperate, my best warrior will use you as a meat puppet." His fist rises like a battering ram above Dean's upturned face. "Brain activity is strictly optional."

A rustling whirlwind suddenly insinuates itself between Dean and his attacker. Zachariah is blown back, flung away from him with a crack of displaced air. Without the hand dragging him up by the hair, Dean slumps to his side, cheek pressed to crushed grass.

His hands are empty; he tries to blink his eyes clear while one hand gropes frantically across the ground. _He's lost the sword._ Sickness fills him, because Cas told him to protect it, to keep it out of enemy hands, and now he's gone and dropped it…

A figure stoops before him, scooping up the golden blade from where it lay hidden, and then planting itself firmly in front of Dean again. Mud-caked boots, damp, faded jeans… Dean half-rolls, hazy eyes lifting higher to a rumpled shirt crossed by the knotted straps of a sling…

There's a deep _whump_ of unfurling wings. A thunderclap rolls out across the mountain range and Castiel stands over Dean, wings outspread in a huge protective shield.

"_You will not touch him again_."

Zachariah pauses in pulling himself to his feet, his expression wary. He straightens slowly, and by the time he's upright again, his insufferable smirk is back in place. "You think _you'll_ stop me, you pathetic ruined thing?"

"I will."

Dean figures he's seriously concussed, because the sword in Castiel's hand has acquired some kind of weird corona; it shimmers with motion, either that or his eyesight is completely shot. He blinks, and then jumps as a harsh rippling sound shreds the air.

A broad, colorless silhouette brackets Zachariah's back—his own wings are outspread, huge and pale. They're white, Dean realizes with a sick sense of irony, the color of purity, of Heaven.

Castiel steps forward to meet him, his own wings ragged, singed dark from his time served in Hell. Sheer terror at the disparity between the two floods Dean's chest; he scrambles, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "Cas, don't!"

He doesn't acknowledge the cry. Sword ablaze, Castiel flies at Zachariah.

The clash sends thunder booming across the mountainside again. The sharp scent of ozone crackles through the air with the first flash of clean bright light. Dean can't make sense of what he's seeing—there's light, fountains of it, and sparks, swirls of air like invisible tornadoes. Electric current snaps over him and his ears ache under the assault of piercing angel voices.

A monumental flash whites out Dean's vision and he buries his face in his arms. Footsteps rip through the grass; he raises his head, unable to stop himself from looking, and Castiel is backing toward him, translucent blue flames licking up and down the blade in his hand. He twists it in a complex whirl of blue and gold, the colors of the heavens. A ball of lightning explodes before him.

A second sword is caught on the edge of Castiel's. It's flung up and out of the flare of light when he throws his arm up, sparking brightly as one blade slides along the other. Tumbling end over end, Zachariah's sword is thrown to the far end of the meadow.

Castiel moves too fast for Dean to track. Another blinding flash burns outward and a clap of thunder shakes the ground and the sky and the air all in between.

When Dean's eyes clear, Castiel is standing chest to chest with Zachariah, the Lucifer sword buried in a steep upward angle through his throat.

Disbelief blazes on Zachariah's face for an endless heartbeat. Then the glitter in his eyes dulls, and his faces slumps to emptiness. Still gripping the sword hilt that braces the slackening weight, Castiel lowers his brother's body to the ground with surprising gentleness.

When his shoulders touch down, a shockwave races outward, leaving an ashy white shadow of enormous wings burned wide across the meadow.

.


	10. Epilogue

See part 1 for disclaimer & notes

* * *

The Devil You Know

Epilogue

* * *

He can't get up.

Dean gets as far as pushing onto his hands and knees, but he just can't get any further onto his feet. His chest and ribs and back are one crumpled mass of excruciating pain, and his head's pounding like it's building to an explosion. Blood's running out of his face in a waterfall, staining the dirt beneath him dark red.

He needs to get up.

He needs to reach Sam, sprawled unconscious – _please god only unconscious_ – off to his left, and he needs to reach Cas, knelt in the mud halfway across the field.

Dean rocks back, from knees to shins to toes. Pushes up on shaking arms. Arches his back.

He needs his…

Agony drops him down before he ever makes his feet.

A split second before he face-plants, a steely arm slides around his chest and keeps him from mashing what's left of his face into the ground.

"Dean. _Dean_."

He means to answer, he does, but his mouth's full of blood and all he can do is gurgle. The world tilts, too-tight hands tipping him over onto his ass, and he nearly pukes his guts out.

"Hold still."

Hands slip down his face, leaving a stinging warmth in their wake. There's a hard press into his side, and his chest cavity _burns_. His protest catches in his throat as he's yanked forward, his spinning head landing in the crook of a neck.

The hands drag down his back, so hard down his spine that it sizzles with the heat and friction. The shock of it snatches his breath from lungs that can suddenly inflate without crackling pain.

"Open your eyes. _Open._ Did you damage them?"

Thumbs push at the corners of his eyes; Dean cracks his eyelids and there's Cas, two freakin' inches from his face and doing a damn good impression of someone with actual human feelings, someone going quietly frantic with worry and concern.

"Why did you watch?" Castiel probably means to sound stern, but Dean hears only the fond exasperation in his voice. "You could have burned your eyes out."

"How's Sammy?"

"Sam's fine; I'll wake him in a minute. Stop changing the subject."

"I'm not. Are _you_ okay? Fucking hell, Cas!"

He bats the angel's hand away from his face, seizes his shoulders and looks him up and down. The sling's disappeared from around his neck; the cuts and bruises have been wiped from his face; the back of his left hand is smooth and unmarked. And his _wings_…

Wings, plural. Both of them, Dean had seen both of them, a little tattered around the edges, but both wings wide and strong and _working_.

"Holy shit, Cas, you got your wings back!"

Dean surges forward and grabs him, yanking Castiel close and practically crushing him.

And after a second where he kneels there all stiff and surprised and probably confused as hell, Castiel's arms come up and wrap around Dean's back and squeeze just as tightly.

Dean fists a handful of his shirt in case he gets any ideas about flapping off to test his wings, and holds on as hard as he can.

Cas doesn't actually seem inclined to let go any time soon either.

They're not hugging. They're _not_. Hugging is… different. Gentler. More girly. Or something.

This is… Well, whatever it is, they've fucking _earned_ it.

* * *

Later, after Sam's awake and back on his feet, they climb the rest of the way to the summit in search of the cage door.

Sam looks like he can't make up his mind whether to be sorry he missed the battle, or relieved he didn't have to see it. He listens, wide-eyed, while Dean recounts the cataclysmic fight in increasingly disjointed spurts of words and waving of hands.

"Cas was _awesome_, Sam," Dean finishes. He pokes the angel lightly in the shoulder. "You were _awesome_."

Castiel gives a faint, sad smile and doesn't answer, and Dean's reminded all-too-abruptly that it was his _brother_ he just killed. A major class-A _dick_ of a brother, but kin nonetheless.

He shuts his mouth and waves them toward the stony peak.

Castiel could flit right to the top now that he's all angeled-up again, but he doesn't. He scrambles alongside Dean, and they pick their way through the rocks on their own feet.

The section of stony ground Castiel stops at doesn't look any different than any other patch of barren mountaintop.

He crouches down and sweeps his hand across the ground, fingers pausing on an invisible line in the rock and then tracing it as far in either direction as he can reach. He looks up at the brothers standing over him. "Here," he says simply.

Dean stares down at the blank ground. "Here," he repeats, and when Castiel nods, asks, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Lucifer's cage door opens here, right _here_, under our feet."

"_A _cage door. It will be his when we put him in it."

Dean crouches down beside the angel and runs his own hand across the ground. He feels rough stone, the prickle of fallen pine needles, a stubby clump of moss growing stubbornly along a cleft in the rock.

No jolt of power, either holy or evil. No prickle of eerie current through his fingertips, no distant heat rising from unfathomable depths. Just chilled damp stone on a mist-covered mountain.

"Okay. So… how? How do we put him in? Just whistle him up and ask him nicely to step inside and have a seat for the duration?"

Castiel trails the tips of his fingers along the invisible line again, as if he's feeling for a seam. He shakes his head. "It will take time. Strategy. We will need allies—I'm not strong enough to open it on my own."

"Allies—Cas, you do realize we're kinda short on those these days, right?"

He tips his face to the sky, his gaze distant. "With Zachariah dead, there may be others who now dare to join me—us," he amends quickly. He stands up, absently brushing off his hand against his jeans. When he looks at Dean, his eyes are very bright, his expression determined, and. maybe, just a bit hopeful.

"Some of my siblings were… closer, perhaps, than others. I have a brother as well, who is older, more powerful than most of us, who disappeared a long, long time ago. Once I thought him lost, but now, knowing what I do of Zachariah's deceptions, I have to wonder… I wonder if he can be found, and persuaded to help us."

"Trying to recruit other angels to our fight sounds fucking risky. Are you trying to get smote right out of the sky?" Dean asks, and Castiel offers a wry half-smile.

"It will be undoubtedly dangerous. But also our best chance." He stretches his hand down to Dean, and pulls him to his feet. "I have to try."

Dean glares sternly at him. "Not alone. You're clear on that, right?"

"Of course, Dean."

"Okay, then." He casts a long look around. The mist is getting thicker, dimming the light further as evening approaches, and Dean shivers. "If there's nothing else we can do here, let's head down. I hate mountain descents in the dark."

He flings one arm around Sam's back and nudges him into motion. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm… I'm good, Dean. Really. I feel… okay, for once."

So maybe his brother is finally clean. Dean still has to work out how to find atonement for that poor sacrificed nurse before his brother's soul is entirely clear, but Cas'll help him think of something. Angels should have a direct line to seeking forgiveness and redemption, after all.

Zachariah's death will probably throw his little angelic cabal into disarray, but it won't take long before a new leader bent on Paradise shakes loose from the pack and they sort themselves out and come gunning for him again. Cas' little recruitment drive is going to be downright dangerous as well.

And it's only a matter of time before Lucifer gets a bead on them and comes knocking. Probably bringing hordes of adoring demon zealots with him, all intent on ripping apart anyone who poses a threat to their lord and master.

Dean waves Sam on ahead and swings around. Castiel is picking his way carefully through the rocks behind him, still not taking wing. One boot catches on a split in the stony ground, throwing him off-balance into a boulder.

"You okay, Cas?"

"Fine, thank you."

"Come on, keep up with us."

Any one of a hundred things is probably going to kill them all before Lucifer's defeated, but Dean's got his brother back, and his friend at his side.

And in the end, if all they have is each other, it'll be enough.

_fin_

December, 2009

* * *

The chapter titles were taken from the song written by Tom Petty and Jeff Lynn. I've loved it since it was released.

I love it even more now.

* * *

In the dark of the sun  
Will you save me a place?  
Give me hope, give me comfort  
Get me to a better place.

I saw you sail across the river  
Underneath Orion's sword  
In your eyes there was a freedom  
I had never known before.

Past my days of great confusion  
I pass my days wondering why  
Will I sail into the heavens?  
Constellations in my eyes.

Hey yeah yeah  
In the dark of the sun  
We will stand together  
Yeah we will stand as one.

In the dark of the sun.


End file.
